


A Study in John's Past

by Imjohnlocked87



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Anal Sex, Angry John Watson, Angry Sex, Angry Sherlock Holmes, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF John Watson, Blow Jobs, Bondage, Case Fic, Dom Greg Lestrade, Dom John Watson, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Established Relationship, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, John Watsons's past, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Overprotective Sherlock Holmes, Protective John, Scared Sherlock, Sherlock Whump, Sub Mycroft, Sub Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-13
Updated: 2020-03-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:08:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 26,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22233817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Imjohnlocked87/pseuds/Imjohnlocked87
Summary: John Watson has been stabbed at Baker Street. By looking for the perpetrator, Sherlock will uncover a secret part of John's past.A chapter the doctor thought was buried forever, so deep that even Mycroft couldn't find it.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 26
Kudos: 131





	1. You know where to find me

Greg waved a hand to John over the crowded pub. It was great to see him there again. John was still pale and a bit slimmer than usual, but his smile confirmed he was almost fully recovered.

Donovan, Anderson, and the others moved to make room for him around the table, warmly greeting him. John seemed delighted to be again at the pub. Dimmock brought him a chair, and the doctor climbed on it, his movements almost as fluid as always.

"Pint?" asked Greg.

"You may wonder?" replied the doctor.

The waiter left it on the table, and John, his eyes closed, took a great sip of it, almost moaning in delight. After weeks of painkillers and antibiotics, that drink tasted like ambrosia.

"How are you?" asked Sally.

"Great, fine, thanks," John's tone said precisely the opposite.

Greg threw a look at her.

"I'm going to have another," said Donovan, pointing at her empty glass, quickly understanding him. "Come with me," she commanded to the rest of them.

They left Greg and John alone at the table.

The DI took another sip.

"How are you, for real, John?"

"Horny."

Lestrade choked in his drink in his attempt to laugh while gulping, beer pouring from his nose as he coughed hard, stroking his chest while John, amused, patted his back, trying to help him to breathe.

"This is the last response I expected to hear from someone stabbed two months ago," the DI achieved to say between coughs and both giggled.

"Okay, I'll be compliant," smiled John. "I'm angry, bored, worried … and horny".

They both laughed again.

Lestrade looked at him.

"I'm happy to see you almost cured."

John groaned.

"I'm not almost cured. I'm _completely_ cured. I'm a doctor, remember?"

"Yes, but _your_ doctors say that you are _almost_ healed."

"Doctors don't know shit," they chuckled. "No, seriously. I feel great, but I'm leading an octogenarian's life. All I do is sleep and eat, eat, and sleep. Añnd watch telly. My brain is melting".

"Don't be wimpy. Sherlock takes you out for a walk every day," he joked.

"Brat."

"It's only two weeks before they take the staples out".

"You are starting to sound like Sherlock. _No, John, we won't take a case until they take the staples out_ , "he said, mimicking Sherlock's deep voice. " _No, John, you won't go back to work until they take the staples out. No, John, forget about fucking my arse until your staples are removed_."

Lestrade clapped, giggling. His impression of Sherlock was great, and he knew John was mad at the detective because, contrary to what happened when he was the injured one, Sherlock was following the instructions of John's doctors with Spartan discipline.

A daily half-hour walk? No matter where they were or how much John protested that he wanted to walk a little further, at half an hour, with atomic clock's precision, Sherlock hailed a cab, and they returned to Baker Street.

Minimum of eight hours of sleep? The detective watched him like a hawk, and if he came out of the bedroom fifteen minutes before the established eight hours, he forced him to go back to bed until he rested for the necessary time, ignoring the patient's protests.

And so on.

Donovan, Anderson, and the rest joined them.

"We bought your nannies a drink," announced the sergeant, raising her glass in the direction of a nearby table, where two men dressed in black raised theirs in response.

John groaned.

For Sherlock, being accompanied by several Scotland Yard officers was no guarantee of safety (" _Please, John... it's Anderson"_ ) and only allowed him to go to the pub if two Mycroft's men kept an eye on him. 

Lestrade took no offense. Sherlock was scared to death by the possibility of John being attacked again and worried sick about his safety.

He took another sip of his drink, trying to swallow the lump in his throat, remembering with horror the moment he, Donovan, and the paramedics arrived at Baker Street alerted by Sherlock's call.

John, nearly unconscious, grunting in pain, was lying in a pool of his own blood while a frightened Sherlock knelt beside him, compressing the deepest wounds to stop them from bleeding and trying to calm down his husband until the paramedics arrived.

Lestrade couldn't help feeling proud of himself because he helped save John's life.

It had been a long and strenuous two-weeks case, and John missed several days at work during it. Two days later, John took a twenty-four-hours shift and returned home at ten o'clock in the morning, longing to go to bed, just as Sherlock was getting ready to leave to Scotland Yard to help the DI with another case.

Several minutes after the detective left, there was a knock at the door. John opened it; sure it was Sherlock trying to drag him to the crime scene. Seconds later, he was holding his abdomen in pain. Two men stabbed him and ran away, disappearing as quickly as they arrived.

The detective was already in the cab when Lestrade texted, asking him to bring back to his office some last case's folders, menacing with a pretended drug bust in case he didn't. For a second, he thought about dismissing his request, but Sherlock didn't want the Yards to disturb John, so he asked the cabbie to go back to Baker Street, opened the front door, and found John bleeding at the top of the stairs.

Luckily, after a long surgery, two weeks in the hospital, and just over two months of convalescence, they were once more sharing a pint as if nothing had happened, having fun with silly drink games.

"Oh, god," sighed John, grabbing his abdomen with his right hand, "I thought I couldn't be able to laugh again."

"Did it hurt when you laugh?"

"As hell."

"Luckily, Holmes is not the funniest man in the world," teased Donovan, and John poked his tongue out to her.

Lestrade couldn't help a sad smile. He was pleased Donovan, Anderson, and the others finally stopped calling Sherlock a freak and treating him like a stinker. But, he was upset John had to be stabbed to make his team realize the detective was far from being the psycho ("excuse me, highly functional sociopath") they thought he was.

A couple of hours later, Greg and John got into the DI's car. Lestrade settled down in his seat and lokked at John for a few moments.

"John, I wouldn't want to upset you while you're convalescing, but…".

"Don't worry. Sherlock is not going to do anything foolish".

"Sherlock will kill the people who stabbed you, John. You know it. Remember the American agent who beaten Mrs. Hudson?"

The doctor shook his head.

"He won't do anything like this. He promised me he would bring them to you".

"Do you think he has an idea about who the attackers are?"

"An idea? By now, he could tell you even their great-great-grandmother's name".

"I'm sorry to bring this up, but…"

"I'm not a fucking porcelain doll, Greg."

"I know, but Sherlock is not the only one who cares about you" Lestrade started the engine, a bit hurt.

John sighed.

"Sorry, Greg. I didn't want to upset you. It's only that... since the attack is like...".

Lestrade waited patiently. He knew John did not find it easy to express his feelings.

"I feel like I'm not myself, like a part of me has been left... crouched or scared in a corner, and I'm not able to connect with it. I don't know how to explain it." 

The DI nodded. 

"I think I understand what you mean. But it's normal to be... scared or distressed or whatever you want to call it, after something like that. This was hard for you. You just need time, and you'll be yourself again". 

The DI smiled warmly.

"So you don't have to apologize," he checked his watch. "Time to go home, or Mummy Sherlock will scold me."

They made their way for Baker Street, followed by John's nannies in the familiar black car. 

They stopped in front of the flat. Lestrade lent some files to John.

"Give them to Sherlock. And tell him to take it easy. If he keeps solving cold cases at this rate, I'll have to ask Interpol for more".

John shook his head. 

"This is what I mean. Sherlock hasn't taken a case since I was stabbed, just to be with me at home. Back in the day, I would have kicked him to NSY. But now I'm not able to push him into it".

John sighed. 

"He is worried about me. He realizes something's wrong with me, no matter how much he denies it. It's my fault".

Lestrade frowned.

"No, John, Sherlock loves you. That's why he stays at home with you. He also needs time to process all of this. You just make sure he doesn't do anything stupid, okay?"

"Sure," John smiled briefly "Thanks for listening to me."

"Welcome. And now, go get some rest. Everything will return to normality. But get upstairs before Mama Bear realizes you're late, and Papa Bear sends all MI6 after you". 

John chuckled, feeling a bit more relieved. 

"Give my regards to Papa Bear," he said and opened the door to get down from the car and disappear behind the black door at 221b Baker Street.

Greg stared at the door for a while and, resting his head on the seat, closed his eyes, and sighed.

Sherlock wasn't worried about John.

He was terrified. 

Greg saw himself back in the hospital, while John was life-or-death operated on. He and Mycroft had been in the waiting room for hours, sitting on either side of Sherlock, waiting for the surgeon to appear.

The detective sat there, folded legs glued to his chest, arms around his legs, staring at a fixed point on the wall. His face didn't express the slightest emotion. He hasn't said a word; moved an inch o eaten or drunk anything of what an increasingly worried Mycroft had offered him since they arrived at the hospital's waiting room.

The surgeon who operated on John came out to talk to them; he said the surgery had gone well; John was stable by now, but the next forty-eight hours were critical, and there was a risk John not make it.

There was a dense, heavy, sad silence. Sherlock only asked if he could see John. The doctor told him he would be able to visit him as soon as he left the ICU. 

While the doctor talked, the detective didn't make the slightest gesture. He didn't even blink. If it weren't for his chest rising and falling rhythmically, Lestrade would have sworn he wasn't breathing. 

The receptionist asked Mycroft to came up to the counter to sign some of John's insurance papers.

Lestrade frowned, hurt by his team's attitude towards the detective. He could understand they pushed around as he threw deductions and insults at cases, or they called him a freak when the detective didn't seem to care for the victims. Still, he couldn't stand them glancing sideways at the broken detective, whispering that Sherlock didn't give a damn about John. 

The DI heard Mycroft shouting and sighed. If Sherlock's defense mechanism was to close in on himself like an oyster, Mycroft's was terrorizing everyone who stood in front of him, the head nurse in that case. The DI got up and walked over to the counter, pushing an angry Mycroft away from the rabid nurse, trying to calm down the two of them. 

When it looked like he'd made it, they heard someone shouting for the security personnel.

Mycroft turned to look at Sherlock, but his seat was empty.

"For God's sake, Gregory, I asked you to keep an eye on him!" snarled Mycroft.

They both ran in the direction of the yells. In an adjoining waiting room, Sherlock was banging chair after chair against the wall, hitting them with all his strength, howling in anger and pain like a wounded animal.

"Sherlock!" called Mycroft, trying to stop him, but his brother easily got rid of him, smashing another chair against the wall.

Greg showed his badge to the security guards and the two doctors who were with them, one of them with a syringe in his hand. The yarders had come to the ruckus, and Greg asked them to keep the patients, hospital, and security personnel away.

"Sherlock," repeated Mycroft, this time more gently, taking advantage of the fact that the detective stopped for a moment to take a breath and get a new chair. "Sherlock, John is gonna be fine."

"And how do you know? Now you have a direct line to Death too?' yelled a broken Sherlock, accompanying each word with blows from the chair to the wall.

"John is not going to leave you alone."

The detective froze, the chair up.

"John won't leave you alone," repeated Mycroft.

Sherlock looked at him, blinking, processing his big brother's words. Mycroft grabbed the chair out of the detective's hands.

"I can't lose him, Mycroft," gasped the detective, broken, his voice weak and quivering," I can't lose John."

"I know. You won't lose him," assured Mycroft, trying to sound confident. "John loves you, is extremely strong, and very bad-tempered. All of which will help him get through. Before you know it, he'll be nagging you about this mess you've made at the hospital.

"I can't lose him" he repeated, sobbing "If John..." he wasn't able to say it "I couldn't stand it" sobbed the detective

"You' won't lose him, little brother. John is going to be fine"

Sherlock leaned his back against the wall, slipped to the floor, hid his head between his bent knees, and began to cry inconsolably, muttering all was his fault, his whole body shaking with every sob.

Mycroft turned to the group around them.

"What are you doing here?" he shouted out of his mind, for once all his phlegm lost, "Don't you have lives to save, people to protect, crimes to avoid? Everybody out! I said EVERYBODY OUT OF HERE!"

Then he went over to Sherlock, knelt beside him and stroke his hair, trying to comfort him, as Lestrade and Donovan dispersed the large group around them.

Greg rubbed his eyes, trying to make the memory disappear. As he drove towards Mycroft's house, he wondered if Sherlock and John could get over it. 

*******

When John entered the flat, Sherlock was lying on the couch, a case file folder opened on his chest. He must have fallen asleep, waiting for him. 

John caressed his hair. The detective had been taking care of him since he got out of the hospital, making sure he took his medication on time, changing his dressings, attentive to anything the doctor might need. And all of the time struggling patiently with the increasing doctor's frustration and lousy mood caused by the inactivity, the damned staples, and the detective becoming as overprotective as if the doctor was five years old. 

John took one blanket to cover the detective with it, and his gaze ran over his body from top to bottom. The waistband of his pajama bottoms was low, at the level of his bony hips, exposing a trail of hair that disappeared beneath his pants.

It had been almost three months without feeling Sherlock's body under his since they made love, seventy-five days since he fucked Sherlock madly.

During the first two months of his convalescence, sex had disappeared from John's priorities, but now, his desire reawakened even stronger. 

He knew it wasn't only about sex. It was related to becoming again who he was before the attack, to recover his life, to feel himself again.

But doctors advised them against penetrative sex until John's staples were removed, to prevent the wounds from reopening. So Sherlock, afraid of John backtracking on his healing, had been dodging him, adamant about John's demands, which only increased their lust.

John bent to kiss Sherlock.

The detective woke up, blinked several times, and kissed him back. Without breaking the kiss, he rose slowly to a sitting position. John sat down next to him.

"Sherlock," gasped John.

"Only a fortnight to go," the detective muttered hoarsely in the doctor's mouth, clearly fighting with himself.

The bulge inside his trousers grew almost painfully, and Sherlock's erection became evident under his pyjama.

John took Sherlock's hand and put it on his groin, so the detective could feel the doctor's hard cock under his trousers.

"Fuck, John," Sherlock panted.

John started moving the detective's hand up and down, caressing him through the clothes.

"I want to fill your mouth with my cock," groaned John, making Sherlock's cock twitch.

The detective closed his eyes, biting his lower lip.

"I will fuck you slowly…".

"You don't know how to fuck slowly…" teased Sherlock.

John raised one eyebrow. He grabbed Sherlock's hair and pulled his head back. Then bent, his mouth glued to the other's man ear.

"I'll make you beg me to go faster so aloud that Lestrade will send here a squad car."

Sherlock twisted on the couch, muffling a moaned "holy shit." John smirked, straddling him. Both groaned when their cocks touched.

The doctor gave a soft thrust, and Sherlock held his hips tightly.

"Don't do that," he gasped, holding a moan.

"What, this?" John rolled his hips tentatively.

"John…" the detective moaned, beaten. He patted John on the thigh to get him up.

Sherlock looked at him for a moment and quickly undid his belt, unbuttoned his trousers and unzipped them, grabbing the doctor's cock, threw his head back and groaned in delight.

The detective stood and pushed John down to make him sit on the couch. Sherlock pulled down his pyjama pants, freeing his cock and carefully straddled John, blocking the doctor's hips with his tights.

"Don't move," he ordered.

As a response, John grabbed Sherlock's arse, pushing him deeply against him, but the detective caught his wrists and moved the doctor's arms again on the couch.

John looked at him, breathing through his clenched teeth. He was used to be the directive one in sex, and he didn't seem comfortable with the change of roles. But he was so intoxicated feeling Sherlock's cock rubbing against his, sensing the detective's body on him, smelling him, and bowing down to Sherlock and let him take over.

The detective produced a tube of lube from the couch, poured it on his hand, and ran his fingers from the bottom to the top of both cocks. John moaned and put his hand on Sherlock's, but the detective moved it again where it was.

"John, if you move, I'll stop," he warned.

John narrowed his eyes and tilted a bit his head as if he was calculating how much force it would take to push Sherlock to the ground and jump on him.

But he knew Sherlock was also refraining himself; on the contrary, they would be already kissing savagely, tearing up each other clothes, John slamming Sherlock on every wall in the flat, fucking him senseless.

So he nodded.

Sherlock started with slower, longer strokes, closing his fingers together as he reached the heads, then loosening them as his hand traveled back down towards the base. John threw back his head and closed his eyes, lost in the softness and warmth of Sherlock's hand, in the firmness with which he held both cocks, mesmerized by the rhythmic rise and fall of the detective's fist, as they both moaned.

Sherlock avoided touching the tips by now. They were so aroused that they would come in an instant if he did it. He wanted to enjoy that sight of John, his slightly opened mouth, his brows furrowed, concentrated in the slow increase of pleasure, as Sherlock jerked them off leisurely.

Their cocks throbbed in his hand as he stroked them, drops of precum dripping down both tips, lubricating his grip and making the strokes smoother. He slid his hand down and up their shafts, making them part their lips to suck in some air. Sherlock kept pumping, squeezing, caressing, both overwhelmed from how long it had been since they touched each other.

Sherlock increased the pace a little, and then rubbed his thumb softly over the highly sensitive skin of their glands, cupping John's testicles with his other hand, gently squeezing them, making John sucking in a deep breath and stifled a growl. The doctor attempted to buck his hips, intensifying the contact between them and rubbing his cock against Sherlock's, but the detective blocked him.

"Fuck, God, Sherlock," John whimpered. "Faster, faster."

Sherlock's quicked his pumps. John grunted loudly, as Sherlock hummed softly, kissing him, his hand running back and forth, his thumb gently caressing their glands, spreading more precum around their cocks.

"hmmmmmmmm" moaned the detective in the doctor's mouth, making him shiver.

"Look at me," ordered the doctor, and they both locked their eyes and kissed between gasps.

Sherlock increased the rhythm, both wailing loudly, shuddering, and gasping. He swirled his other open palm around the heads, over the slits, and John let out a soft cry, arching his back slightly, dying to move his hips back and forth, but holding himself to do it.

It was Sherlock who canted his hips, and their cocks rubbed one against other, deliciously driving both mad.

He gripped both cocks harder and sped up his movements as fast as he could, twisting his wrist as he pumped up and down, pushing them over the edge, forcing his hand to keep the rhythm, though it shivered a bit with each stroke.

"Sherlock" growled John, "don't stop, don't stop, shit, shit, shit," and their bodies tensed. John let out a howling moan and Sherlock a blissful one, and both came hard, groaning and growling deeply.

Sherlock kept on softly, stroking them through their orgasm, and they came a bit more until their cries turned into quiet whimpers.

Sherlock collapsed on John, both shaking and breathing heavily.

"Are… are you okay?" panted the detective, concerned.

John nodded.

"These are going to be the longest fifteen days of my life," he groaned.

"Fourteen" panted Sherlock, "Only fourteen. It's already tomorrow."

Sherlock carefully felt John's staples to make sure that none had come loose.

"They are fine," gasped John.

Sherlock stood and sat next to him, resting his head on the doctor's shoulder.

"Did you have fun with Lestrade?".

"Not as much as with you," both chuckled.

John looked into Sherlock's eyes and kissed him softly.

"Thanks, love. For taking care of me, for putting up with me, "Sherlock waved his hand, dismissively. "No, I know I haven't been the easiest patient in the world. I don't know how I can ever thank you".

"You don't have to. I did it because the sooner you'll recover, the sooner we'll be back chasing criminals in London".

"And because you love me."

"And because I love you," Sherlock smiled, brushing his lips against John's, amazed at how easy it was now for him to say these words. 

Both remained silent for a while, John stroking Sherlock's hair, the detective comforted by the firm, rhythmic beating of John's heart. He pressed his head against the doctor's chest and closed his eyes, trying to calm himself down. The thought of almost losing John still terrified him.

"Go to bed," he whispered after a while, "it's been a long day for you."

"Come to bed. You need to sleep".

"Give me five minutes to finish this case," he said, taking a folder. 

John kissed him again and stood from the couch, disappearing in the bathroom.

Sherlock left the folder on the table and took his phone without losing sight of the bathroom door.

 _We need to talk. SH,_ he wrote, turned off the phone volume and sent the message.

 _You know where to find me. IA_ was the immediate response.

Sherlock sighed, slipped the phone again in the pocket on his coat, and got into the bedroom, waiting for John.


	2. Don't leave me out

He looked around. At six in the morning, the streets were almost desert, and nobody noticed the tall figure about to enter Irene Adler's manor. The door got opened. A young, blonde woman dressed in a tight white jumpsuit invited him in, stepping aside to flank the threshold and enter the house.

After several years out of England, the Woman went back to London and soon became the most sought-after dominatrix again; the country's most influential personalities attended her house, all wrapped up in absolute discretion.

The assistant led him into a large, unfurnished room with only a carpet on the floor and left him alone.

He knelt, waiting, and soon got bored. He hated that woman's habit of keeping him waiting. Her way to show him the one who once sunk her was now just a toy in her hands. But he had to do it. For him.

The unmistakable sound of Irene's slow, rhythmic footsteps reached him. He tensed. But when the steps arrived at the door, passed by. On the one hand, he felt relief; on the other, frustration. His knees ached.

After a while, someone entered the room. He bowed his head down. Someone gagged him with a rubber ball gag. He grunted in discomfort, and a crop smashed his arse. He froze at the sudden pain. The same hands put a leather collar around his neck.

He frowned when the assistant gave him a tray with three cups of coffee filled to the brim. That was new. He was about to ask, but the burning in his arsecheeks advised him not to do it. The assistant gestured him to get up, led him to a door, and ordered to wait until The Woman called him.

Ten long minutes later, he heard a bell rang. He sighed, and, careful not to spill anything, pushed down the knob with his elbow, entering the room.

He blushed all over and felt his legs wobbling when the man to whom Irene was talking to turned to look at him.

"Mycroft, don't be rude, say hello to your brother," ordered Irene, visibly amused.

If Sherlock got shocked by seeing his brother gagged and wearing a collar, he didn't let it show.

"Your brother is here because someone thinks he needs to learn discipline," scoffed Irene. Mycroft was clearly about to roll his eyes, but he stopped at Irene's warning glare, "Could you image it, brainy, a Holmes needing to be disciplined?"

She chuckled softly, rubbing the tip of the crop against Mycroft's groin. The tray trembled dangerously. For Irene's delight, Sherlock looked away. 

Mycroft's discomfort increased when the detective took a quick look at him. The older Holmes knew that look. It was saying something like,  _ I'm busy now, but when I'm done, I'll be pissing you off with this until doomsday _ .

Irene smiled like a mischievous cat, ignored Mycroft, and walked next to Sherlock.

"And what about you, brainy? Do you also need to be disciplined?" she asked, caressing the detective's cheek with the crop.

Sherlock slapped it away.

"Naughty, naughty," Irene purred and sat on one of the couches, crossing her long legs, inviting Sherlock to sit in the other with a gesture.

Instead of sitting, Sherlock took his phone out of his pocket, looked for a file, and showed Irene a photograph of two men.

"About a week ago, a man was supposed to meet here these two. He booked a dungeon, or whatever you call it. However, only the man came to the appointment. I want to know who he is and what do you have to do with them".

Mycroft also looked at Irene, visibly surprised.

"Who allowed you to look at me?" the Woman barked, and Mycroft looked down to the floor.

"Have you heard of data protection? That's confidential."

Sherlock grabbed Irene by her neck, pressing his head against the back of the sofa. Irene let out a little cry and tried to free herself, but he didn't move his hand an inch, not making so much pressure to suffocate her but enough to make her gasp for air.

"These men attacked John. I want to know who hired them. And I swear to God if you're involved in this...".

Irene shook her head and tried to talk. Sherlock loosened his hand a bit, without letting go of her neck.

"I don't know them. I had nothing to do with them," she assured in a husky voice.

The detective looked at her and released his hand, knowing she was telling the truth. She threw him a poisoned gaze, and coughed, rubbing her throat, trying to put herself together.

Irene was worried. She still had powerful enemies who would not hesitate to make mincemeat of her at the slightest opportunity. And she knew Sherlock would no more be by her side to save her head, as he did in Karachi.

"Who told you they met here?" asked the dominatrix.

"That's not important."

"It has no sense. Why would these men choose my house?"

"This is the most private place in London," Sherlock's glare moved briefly towards Mycroft, "so either of them should be assiduous enough of this place to know it and go unnoticed."

Irene looked again at the photograph.

"I've never seen them around here. I know all my clients, even if I don't play with them personally".

Irene gave Mycroft a cat's-eye look. The older Holmes left the tray on the coffee table and tried to ungag himself, which reminded Sherlock of a dog fighting to remove his muzzle.

"Show us the records," he ordered, when finally managed to free himself, stretching the muscles of his jaw, numb due to the gag.

"You know your insolence will be punished."

Mycroft's eyes glowed.

"Yes, Madam."

He saw Sherlock shaking his head, as wondering if that was really happening. Mycroft couldn't hide a smile. He loved baffling his little brother. 

"I'll help you," Irene started, and Sherlock moved towards the door. "With one condition."

"No."

Irene walked around him, self-confident again.

"What are you so afraid of, brainy?"

"I'm not afraid of anything. I don't like your little games".

"Oh, yes, you are. Afraid of liking my little games".

Sherlock was gay. The Woman was gay. But sparks were flying between them whenever they were together. An extremely erotic power game. The power to submit the other, to bend the other's will. In the figurative sense in Sherlock's case. In the literal in the case of The Woman.

Both looked at each other's eyes for a while, and Mycroft felt the temperature of the room rising.

Finally, she walked out of the room towards the stairs.

Sherlock cast an inquisitive glance at his brother

"It's a surprise for Gregory."

"Oh, sure, I bet he will be shocked when he receives certain photographs."

"She won't do it. We signed a contract."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"You saved her; we all know why."

"For the umpteenth time … I wasn't in love with her," he showed a naughty smile. "She drove John crazy with jealousy."

Mycroft chuckled. The Holmes, so proud of their big brains, of their superior intelligence, proclaiming that love was a chemical defect… and indeed, they just were two complete idiots in love.

He looked intently at his little brother

"You knew it," he said. It wasn't a question.

Sherlock nodded.

"How…?"

"Next time you attend a crime scene, try not shivering when Lestrade barks orders to his team."

"Does it bother you?"

"Seeing you gagged?" Sherlock chuckled, "My dream come true."

"It's not me who the Yarders are dying to gag."

Sherlock snorted and both exit from the room and went downstairs to the reception desk, where Irene was waiting for them, holding the reception records.

"Handwritten?" amazed Mycroft.

"The only way of guarantee privacy nowadays," she retorted.

Sherlock glanced through the sheets and took out his pen and his Moleskine.

"There were three canceled bookings. Barrymore, Connelly and Evan," he read aloud, taking note of them "Any other data?"

Irene shook his head.

"All of them paid in cash. No traces, remember?"

"Did you notice any unusual behavior in any of them when they canceled the booking?" asked Sherlock to the receptionist.

"No, it's not the first time it happens. Sometimes people book the dungeons when they are a bit… drunk, and when they are sober, they change their mind. In case one of them attends and the others no, they find others way to entertain themselves," she ended with a suggestive smile.

Sherlock nodded and left the house without saying anything else, Mycroft running after him, John-style.

"When were you informed about that meeting?" he asked.

"Yesterday night."

"I didn't saw the message" he took his phone and checked it.

"Maybe you were busy... carrying trays," mocked Sherlock.

Mycroft tilted his head and bit the inside of his cheek, a mute plea dancing in their eyes.

"Homeless network. I distributed the photography between them. One of our  _ friends _ was seen hovering around Irene's house. I interrogated him, and he told me about the meeting."

"We agreed not to involve anyone else in this matter, not even your network."

"You decided it. But I won't stand idly waiting for your MI6 to find something. They are as useless as the Yarders".

Mycroft nodded. Arguing with Sherlock was useless when it came to John. He couldn't blame his little brother for not trusting on the MI6. All of the surveillance systems they set at Baker Street proved to be useless to protect the doctor. 

The detective closed his eyes for a moment, thinking.

"Check the bank account details of the two blokes again. Maybe any of the payments are related to any of those three names".

Mycroft took out his phone and sent a quick text and looked at Sherlock. The detective was pale, thinner than usual, exhausted, worried, and frustrated. It took him almost two weeks to find John's attackers, and now it seemed he was back at square one. 

He lifted his chin a bit. Anyone could interpret that gesture as bossy, but Sherlock knew it meant Mycroft was a bit concerned.

"Sherlock…. don't say anything to Gregory about… " he pointed towards Irene's house.

"It's none of my business. But don't hurt him. He doesn't deserve it."

Mycroft smiled for himself. Sherlock caring about Lestrade. Live to see.

"Go to sleep, and eat something," Sherlock nodded in a way that clearly meant he hasn't no intention of doing anything of it. "See you, little brother. Take care of John. I'll send you any info I could get from the bank as soon as I have it".

A black car stopped near them, and Mycroft got it, as Sherlock hailed a cab to go back to Baker Street.

*****

Greg entered the house and left his coat in the coat rack. The umbrella stand was empty, so Mycroft hasn't arrived yet. He moved to the kitchen and disposed on the table the foodstuff he bought on his way home.

Even though they'd been living together for four months, he wasn't accustomed to Mycroft's huge house. He would have preferred to live in a flat, similar to Sherlock and John's at Baker Street, but he understood Mycroft's safety and privacy required him to remain in his home. 

The spacious kitchen was undoubtedly one of the advantages of living there. Mycroft, like Sherlock, showed no interest in cooking, but Greg enjoyed doing it. It helped him relax after work, clear his mind, and leave aside all the human misery he had seen during the day. 

But that afternoon cooking wasn't enough to relax him. He was furious about Mycroft leaving him apart in John's case. Since the incident, Mycroft locked himself away, and his usually scheduled life turned into countless meetings at unearthly hours with Anthea, secret services' members, and Sherlock. And every time Lestrade offered himself to help him, he got the same answer: "Don't worry, Gregory. Everything is under control". If he heard those words one more time, he would scream.

He knew Mycroft only tried to protect him. Surely, more than one of his activities bordered the illegality, and he didn't want to compromise Lestrade's career. But he couldn't understand how Mycroft's massive intellect didn't allow him to realize there was a difference between not sharing all the details of the investigation and shutting himself down, the same as Sherlock was doing with John. 

He decided it was time to end with Mycroft's stubbornness. And he knew perfectly how to do it. 

"Hi, Gregory," greeted Mycroft, entering the kitchen at that time, embracing him. Greg tilted his head, and Mycroft kissed him gently. The DI turned his head to kiss him back. "You look tired."

"Long day. You look gorgeous, as always".

"Flatterer."

Mycroft hesitated. He could read Greg's annoyance, and how he was trying to hide it, not to widen the chasm between them. 

"Gregory..." he hated himself for not being able to turn his feelings into words. Fortunately for him, after two years of being together, Lestrade knew him well enough to know what he meant.

Greg turned back to slice the carrots. Mycroft frowned, baffled.

"You have ten minutes," the DI said.

Mycroft stiffened, surprised.

"Haven't you listened to me? You have ten minutes".

His eyes widened. A second after, the British Government ran to the shower.

Greg chuckled and went to their bedroom, took off his shirt, sat on the armchair in front of the bed, and waited.

Five minutes later, a naked Mycroft entered the bedroom and knelt next to the bed, his head bowed. Greg licked his lips and felt his cock jerk. The vision of Mycroft kneeling, shivering slightly, and waiting for his orders excited him madly.

"Bed," Lestrade barked, snapping his fingers and Mycroft, his skin still a bit wet for the shower, jumped on it, and laid on his back spread-eagled. 

Greg tied him to the bedposts, feeling his own erection pressing against his trousers.

Mycroft sighed at every knot Greg tied. He loved the feeling of letting himself go, of allowing Greg to take control. His heart loved the easy-going, kind, caring Lestrade, but his cock preferred the dominant Greg he discovered after a monumental row a few days after start living together, uncovering his submissive side in sex. 

He trembled against his restraints, shivering at the DI's voice, his semi-hard cock jerking at Greg's dirty and mischievous grin. It was the last thing he saw before being blindfolded.

"Remember your safe word?"

Mycroft held a laugh, and Lestrade slapped his cock, making him moan. Even tied up, Mycroft couldn't help but be the smug prick he was, so proud of his brain and memory.

"Answer the question."

"Diogenes"

"Snap your fingers in case you can't speak."

Mycroft growled.

Greg gave him a warm, wet kiss, rolling his tongue around Mycrot's, and soon the kissing became more passionate. Mycroft's now hard cock twitched, and he raised his hips, trying to find Greg's, but the DI broke off the kiss and moved away from the bed.

Mycroft jumped and pulled at his bonds when he felt the tip of a feather around his jaw. It ran down his neck and moved over his collarbones, creating goosebumps in its wake, providing a soft tingly sensation on his skin that turned him oversensitive.

The feather moved down, encircling each nipple several times without touching them. Mycroft moaned softly, almost for himself, and arched his back when the feather rubbed one of them, his body tensing as he let out a giggle. He bit his lips and groaned when he felt Greg's tongue lapping the other.

The ghostly touch moved down to his abdomen, playing with his navel, and rubbing his sides. He twisted and writhed in an attempt to avoid the feather touch, so smooth that was unbearable.

Greg didn't speak. He wanted Mycroft to concentrate in the touch, in the sensations the feather and his tongue provided over his body, without any choice but to endure them.

His moans became stronger when the feather ran over his shaft, circling the crown in slow spiral motions until reaching the tip. It moved back to the base, rubbing along the shaft, and back to the tip again, softly brushing it, pocking on it, spreading the copious drops of precum along with the whole cock.

The feather ran down again, tickling his testicles and scrotum, making him squeal and giggle, and continued over his inner tights.

Mycroft whined as the feather run through his legs and reached his feet. His legs jerked hard when Greg tickled his soles, but the restraints prevented him from moving, only allowing him to buck and laugh uncontrollably.

The touch ceased. He sharpened his ear but didn't hear anything. The waiting was killing him.

Suddenly, Greg's hands grabbed his cock. They were lubed and felt warm and soft. The DI rubbed his thumbs together along Mycrof's shaft, with a slow movement, from the bottom to the top. Then they went to the frenulum and caressed it with circular motions of both thumbs, making Mycroft moan and whine, his hips bucking wildly, trying to fuck Greg's hands.

The DI pinned his boyfriend's hips to the bed and rubbed both thumbs over the tip of his cock, softly stroking the slit. Mycroft felt his cock aching, his orgasm tingling in his abdomen, enjoying the aroused hums that escaped from Greg's mouth.

Lestrade grabbed his cock and stroked him up and down, kissing Mycroft's lips softly and caressed his hair, sweeping the sweat from his forehead.

He rubbed his palm over the tip, and Mycroft moaned harder, one hand rubbing the crown of his cock and the other caressing his testicles, moving down to the perineum and getting back to his testicles again, softly pinching them, as Mycroft let out short, little rhymical moan. His hips started bucking mad, his ball tensed, and he came, his cock spurting over his chest, as he moaned between howls of pleasure.

Greg grabbed his twitching cock firmly and stroked him, making him cum harder, as Mycroft whined madly.

"Did I allow you to cum?" Greg rumbled in a threatening tone.

Mycroft kept moaning, unable to answer, gasping and groaning.

"Did I give you permission to cum?" Greg repeated, accompanying each word with a stroke, and Mycroft hissed, his cock oversensitive under Lestrade's hand.

"No…, Sir"

"So?"…

Mycroft clenched his teeth. He wanted to tell Greg he knew entirely he was not able to control himself while being tickled, that it was his fault, but he decided not to. He had committed that mistake before and knew the consequences.

"So?" Greg squeezed a bit roughly his testicles while jerking him, the mixture of pain and pleasure getting Mycroft hard again.

"I'm nggggggggggg sorry… sir," he bubbled and cried when one of his nipples was mercilessly twisted. Greg bent down, surrounded with his mouth the head of his cock, his lips running around the frenulum, suctioning him for a while, as Mycroft whined and moaned. Then, he swallowed it so deep that Mycroft could feel Greg's nose brushing against his groin, as he bowed his head up and down, making him grunting hard.

When the DI felt Mycroft was near to come, he took it from his mouth, and his tongue traveled along the shaft, reaching his testicles. He took them in his mouth and lapped them, jerking Mycroft's cock at the same time, stopping the movement every time Mycroft's orgasm approached, enjoying his whining pleas for letting him come. 

The DI engulfed him again, bowed his head up and down, pinching his nipples, swallowing Mycroft's cock deep until he could feel Greg's throat.

A growl burst from Mycroft's mouth as he came again inside Greg's mouth, his body convulsing as Greg sucked until the last drop out of him.

"Oh, God," cried Mycroft, panting, exhausted.

Greg let out a devilish chuckle as he untied his sub. Mycroft remained limp on the mattress.

"Prepare yourself for me," Greg barked. "When the time is over, I'm going to fuck you hard as hell, so better do it well."

And he left the bed and sat again on the armchair, crossed his legs leaned back, his hands resting on the arms of the chair. He looked as casual as he was watching an annoying telly program if it weren't by the huge bulge inside his trousers.

He set the chronometer of his watch.

"Time is running," he warned, "You know the rules."

Mycroft remained still in the bed a few seconds more, exhausted, and overwhelmed. He knew Greg wouldn't hurt him. He trusted him. But he didn't want to disappoint the DI, so his hand searched for the lube from below the pillow.

He didn't know how much time he had. Depending on Greg's mood, it could be five minutes, ten if he felt generous, three if he was really pissed off.

He poured the lube on his fingers and pushed one inside him, holding a moan. Those were the two first rules: no sounds, not coming. So he pressed his lips firmly, inhaling and exhaling deep and quickly through his nose, as he carefully pulled another finger inside, pumping both in and out, avoiding touching his prostate. Otherwise, he would come instantly.

Greg hawked, and Mycroft closed his eyes. Rule number three. He grabbed his cock and stroke himself, the impossibility of making any sound aroused him even more, as he scissored his fingers inside his hole to relax the muscle. The hand on his cock trembled as he stroked himself, his fist around his shaft as soft as he could, barely touching himself. It was torturing, but it prevented him from coming.

Greg's gaze fixed on him threw shivers through his spine. He thrust his fingers in and out, now three, stretching himself as quickly as he could, his cock leaking profusely, his hips bucking as he felt himself closer and closer to the orgasm.

"Time's up."

Mycroft held a curse; breathing hard, he stopped touching himself and took his fingers out of his arse.

"You just came twice, and you want to come again?" Greg's voice grumbles at his ear, making him shudder, "You are such a greedy cumslut…"

Mycroft swallowed hard as he heard Greg stripping down from his clothes.

Mycroft couldn't hold a moan when he felt the head of Greg's cock pushing against his hole. Greg groaned as he slid inside and pulled it out entirely for Mycroft's desperation.

"Please, Sir… I need it."

Greg slapped his arse, and Mycroft groaned in pleasure.

"I don't care about what you need."

Grabbing Mycroft's hips firmly, Greg shoved his cock inside him in one go, growling as he gathered all their self-control to not come at that very moment. He waited a bit to let Mycroft get used to him and thrust inside and out of him, quickly increasing his pace, hitting hard his prostate, and bucked to meet Greg's thrusts, moaning aloud.

"Such a desperate slut…." Greg panted, punctuating every word with a hard thrust, enjoying the vision of a wrecked Mycroft twisting and gasping, his mouth opened, barely able to do anything but moaning, and shivering, as Greg tortured his prostate.

"Greg… ahhhh, I," Mycroft moaned brokenly.

"You like being fucked hard?"

Mycroft nodded, his hands gripping the headboard.

Greg leaned over Mycroft, to speak into his ear, pumping deep and fast in Mycroft ass.

"Imagine me slamming you this way, in that posh office of yours… "he purred "Me, pressing you down onto your desk, ramming my big hard my cock inside you…" he rumbled wickedly.

Mycroft exhaled a chocked moan at the picture Greg created in his mind.

"No… hmmmmmm….."

"You should keep your voice down, or every else would know Mycroft Holmes is a cockslut" Greg's voice was a mix of moaning and mumbling, the image also vivid in his mind. He picked up his pace, fucking Mycroft even deeper, drilling him with his cock, groaning hard as he felt the orgasm tingling in his abdomen.

"Come," he growled.

And Mycroft came as if it wasn't the third time he did it, covering again his chest with his cum, his body trashing madly, groaning and moaning loudly. Greg gave a couple of erratic thrusts and came hard inside him, roaring, finally collapsing on Mycroft's body.

He pulled out of Mycroft limp body, took out the blindfold, and softly kissed him on his forehead and lips.

"Are you ok?"

Mycroft hummed affirmatively, not able to speak. Greg smiled, went to the bathroom to fetch a wet towel, and cleaned Mycroft with it, the man sighing softly at the warm touch.

"Better?" asked Greg, embracing him. Mycroft nodded again, kissing him back, but the DI could see the anguished, worried look coming back to his eyes. 

"What is it, Mycroft?" he asked.

"Nothing," he answered.

Greg grabbed him by the chin so they could look at each other.

"Don't do that; don't leave me out."

Mycroft chuckled, amazed at how Greg could read him, could see in him even his better-hidden emotions, and he was damn good at hiding them. Greg waited while Mycroft scanned his face, reading him, in a very Sherlockian way, checking if he could find what he was looking for.

"The men who attacked John… they were recruited".

"By whom?"

"We don't know yet. But John is still in danger. Someone wants to kill him, and he won't stop until he gets it".

Greg nodded again, questions cramming down his throat, the cop inside him dying to interrogate his boyfriend.

"Let me help you."

Mycroft shook his head.

"We don't need help."

Greg rolled his eyes. Bloody Holmeses.

"Myc, maybe we're not as smart as Sherlock and you," Mycroft snorted. Greg ignored him. "But anyone of my team would give their life for John."

Mycroft looked at him again.

"All right," he stood, took Lestrade's trousers and threw them to his boyfriend, who caught them in the air. "Get dressed."

"Where are we going?"

Mycroft didn't answer. He got dressed and moved out of the room. 

They went downstairs, towards the cellar, a part of the house Greg didn't know. Behind the door, a narrow corridor led to an elevator. Mycroft pressed some keys in the numerical keyboard at the wall, and the elevator's door opened. They got into it and descended a couple of levels. When they moved out, Greg gaped.

Around thirty people were distributed in different rooms. They moved from one room to another, consulting documents, speaking at the phone, watching surveillance camera videos, or simply chatting with a coffee in their hands.

The walls were covered with screens, where they could see satellite images and CCTV records, except one of them, that was filled a lot of with photographs and notes, in the way Sherlock used to do it. 

All of them stiffened and got silent when they saw Mycroft. All of them except Sherlock, who frowned at the sight of them. 

"Myc, what...? Do you have a fucking headquarter in the cellar?"

"In our cellar," Mycroft pointed out "We settled it this morning. We currently have three investigation lines and must cover them all".

"What is he doing here?" 

"You involved the network. I brought Lestrade. We're tied, little brother". 

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. He looked at Greg for a while, deducing him, nodded, and lent him a folder.

"John is going to kill you if he finds out about this," the DI warned.

"This is why I'm not here now. I'm with you at Scotland Yard". 

Lestrade frowned, grabbed the folder, and sat at one of the free desks. Mycroft sat at his side and gave him a quick kiss, that made Greg blush.

Sherlock looked at them and sighed.

He missed John. 


	3. Who is Sebastian Moran, John?

John woke up and stretched his arms, yawning widely. His hand searched the other side of the bed. Empty and cold. So Sherlock didn't get any slept that night either.

He cursed, got out of the bed, and moved to the living room, to drag him to their bed. But the living room was deserted.

"Good morning John," crooned Mrs. Hudson, encased in an apron, cooking scrambled eggs and bacon.

"What are you doing here, Mrs. H?" asked John, mentally thanking God to be wearing his pyjama pants.

"Sherlock asked me to prepare your breakfast."

John closed his eyes and pursed his lips.

"I'm perfectly capable of…" 

"I know, dear, but I don't mind."

"At what time did he leave this morning?"

"This morning? No, Sherlock asked me to do it last night. He had to go to the Yarders, and he didn't know when he would be back. I guess you were already sleeping".

John covered his eyes with his hand. Mrs. Hudson looked at him, worried.

"What is happening, dear?"

"Nothing" snapped the doctor, "EVERYTHING IS FINE!" he yelled.

The landlady took two cups of tea, gave one to the man, and sat in front of him, watching him closely.

"We both know that's not true. The John Watson I know would already be putting on his jacket on his way to Scotland Yard to be with Sherlock. Instead, here you are, eating scrambled eggs with your landlady".

The doctor stirred in his chair, uneasy. He swirled the teaspoon inside his cup, without looking at her. Mrs. Hudson sipped her tea and waited. 

"When I went to Afghanistan, my life was a real mess. So, when the sniper shot me, I was in pain, I was shocked, but I wasn't afraid of dying because I didn't have anything to lose".

Mrs. Hudson nodded.

"But when I was bleeding, lying on the floor, alone, I knew I was about to die," he made a gesture towards the door. "I didn't feel the pain or was in shock. I only..."

He cleared his throat and took a sip of tea.

"They say when you are going to die, you see your whole life passing in front of your eyes, but I only could see all the things I would never live with Sherlock. All the love, the cases, the rows, the…" he blushed, and Mrs. Hudson chuckled a bit, "I would miss, and, for the first time, I felt terrified at the thought of dying. Because, ever since I met Sherlock, I felt my life had a meaning; I felt, after so many years, my life was worthwhile, that I was worthwhile. Before I met him, I was so alone, so empty, so useless..."

His voice cracked, and he gulped for air a couple of times

"After so much pain, so much anguish and loneliness, Sherlock appeared, erasing all those years with one stroke, making me feel alive, useful, and loved. And while I was bleeding, I told myself it was unfair to die when I just started living". 

He bowed his head. His tone became lower, almost as if he was talking to himself

"When Sherlock arrived and held my hand, I told myself that, if I survived, I would not let anything or anyone take that away from me. And something inside myself got disconnected, ... something like the strength or the courage or the energy ... I don't know how to name it, but I'm unable to reconnect with that part of me. Somehow I'm not able to put myself back together since that day". 

The landlady patted John's arm affectionately.

"So, your fabulous plan is to remain locked in here for the rest of your lives, secure, but locked."

John shrugged. He felt stupid and ashamed that Mrs. Hudson could read him so well, almost like Sherlock

"Not our whole life. Maybe thirty years or so," he smiled sadly.

Mrs. Hudson smiled back, understanding.

"John, life can't be lived halfway. You either live it, or you don't, and living carries risks. It's impossible to be completely safe. The fear of losing what you already have is preventing you from enjoying it."

She shook her head. 

"You two should talk from time to time about how you feel, especially after something like that. Only you both can break this vicious circle you've got yourselves into, as I told Sherlock yesterday. You have to do something to broke it, or you are going to lose the rest of your life like this. And that will not have been worth it at all".

"Did you talk to Sherlock?"

"Well, somebody has to get you two on the sidewalk once in a while," smiled the landlady, "I can't have my boys running around lost."

The doctor shook his head, thinking about Mrs. Hudson's words. He nodded for himself and stood. 

"Thaks, Mrs. Hudson. This idiot has to go now to talk to the other idiot".

******

Sherlock pinched in the wall the photograph of the next Barrymore they were investigating and looked at it as one of Mycroft's minions read aloud the information they gathered about him.

"Repeat that," ordered the detective suddenly.

"He worked as a warden at the Broomfield Hospital in Chelmsford."

Sherlock closed his eyes for a second and put his index fingers below his chin, entering John's wing of his Mind Palace and gathering the stored information he was looking for. He opened them, approached one of the computers, and started typing quickly.

"What is it, Sherlock?" asked Greg.

"Broomfield Hospital."

"Could you enlight us with your knowledge, dear brother?"

Sherlock sighed, exasperated, his eyes fixed on the screen.

"Broomfield Hospital. John worked there before going to Afghanistan".

"But… a warden? We are supposed to look for a wealthy man who frequents Irene's house, aren't we?" asked Lestrade. He rubbed his neck, weary. They had been working for over twelve hours straight, and his poor brain was crying out for a break, as well as those of the rest in the basement.

"He is just a middleman," answered Sherlock, as if it explained everything. He ran his finger over the screen, following a list of names.

He stood and put on his coat.

"Where are you going?" asked Mycroft.

"It's time for John's walk."

"Sherlock, you have to…" Mycroft sighed when the detective disappeared inside the elevator.

Once out of the house, the detective took his phone and attached the man's photograph to a message.

" _Know him? SH"_.

" _One of my most loyal visitors. Congrats brainy!! IA"_

Sherlock went out of the manor and hailed a cab that stopped in front of a block of flats in Stockwell district. He pressed all the intercom buttons. When the door buzzed open, he entered, climbed the stairs to the third floor, and walked down the corridor through the last apartment.

The detective knocked at the door and pressed his ear to it. He could hear footsteps approaching. A man, due by the cadence of his steps. He was short since Sherlock listened to the wood's crackle when he stood on his tiptoes so he could look through the peephole, but Sherlock moved out of his range of view.

The detective waited until he heard the footsteps going back to the interior of the apartment. Then he ran his gloved hands through the door, studying it. Satisfied, he moved backward and threw himself against the door, which opened violently, slamming the wall.

A short, bald man around his fifty came out of the kitchen, alerted by the noise. His eyes widened in terror when a tall, dark figure smashed him against the corridor wall and put a gun to his temple.

Sherlock looked at the shivering man _. A_ _gambler, up to his neck in debt, not a regular offender_ . _The job was only a way to get rid of some debts._

"You failed," hissed Sherlock, his face almost touching the man's. "The doctor is still alive."

"No, please…" he closed his eyes and sobbed in terror, raising his trembling hands. "It wasn't my fault…"

Sherlock pressed the man harder against the wall. His legs wobbled, and he seemed incapable of supporting himself, as he kept sobbing and muttering pleads.

"He gave you a lot of money in payment for the job."

The man opened his eyes, hoped. Sherlock smiled for himself.

"I could give you a part of it. I still have it".

"Seventy-five percent, and maybe I could intercede for you."

"No…, no I need, it's… too much,".

"It's not an offer. You decide. Seventy-five percent or I pull the trigger".

Sherlock could see the gambler debating with himself internally. He surely needed the many for paying his debts, but he wanted to live. Sherlock pressed harder the barrel against his head.

"You win. You win. I'll give it to you".

"Then I'll ask Penrose to give you one last chance to finish the job."

Sherlock threw the name, knowing it was wrong. The man looked confused.

"Pen… Penrose? I don't know anyone called Penrose":

"Don't play with me," he hissed menacingly...

"No! I swear! Moran! Moran gave me the money, not Penrose, not Penrose".

"I'll tell you what you are going to do. You'll meet Moran and asked him for a second chance to kill the doctor".

"I cannot contact him. I swear,".

"Well, in that case, I'm afraid I cannot help you" he removed the barrel from the man's head. "Moran's men will come to visit you. And they won't be so merciful as me. They will enjoy your cries of pain and your begs of mercy while they torture you. Good luck,".

He moved away from the man and addressed to the door, mentally counting from three to one. When his mind reached the one, the man screamed.

"Wait! … I just remember I have a… phone; he gave me a phone… only to talk to him," the gambler pointed towards a drawer under the TV.

Sherlock nodded, inviting him to take it with a movement of the gun. He rummaged in the drawer, took the phone out and showed it to Sherlock.

"Unlock it."

The man obeyed.

Sherlock took the phone, and with a blow to his neck, knocked him unconscious. He produced some police bridles from his coat pocket and tied the man up with them, gagging him with a rag he found at the kitchen.

"You can thanks John Watson for not being dead right now," he muttered, angry.

He tipped a message on the phone the man gave him. Five minutes later, he got a response. Sherlock left the house and took a cab that led him to the address stated in the message, one parking near the docks.

Once there, he retook his phone and wrote another text. Twenty minutes later, he received the response. After reading it, Sherlock wandered up and down the parking lot, muttering for himself. He sent three more texts. 

Finally, the detective lighted a cigarette, gave it a deep draught, leaned on a car, waited, his hands in his pockets, his eyes narrowed by the smoke, scanning the surroundings for any movement.

******

Lestrade's phone buzzed. He unlocked it and frowned.

"It's Sherlock. He gave us an address … to pick up the garbage?".

He showed the message to an agent, and he went out of the cellar.

Mycroft clipped his tongue.

"So he didn't go back to Baker Street. Where is he now?" he asked another agent besides him.

"We don't know, sir. He disabled the tracking system in his phone".

Mycroft closed his eyes, inhaled deeply, and looked at the man.

"Find him. I don't care how, but find him!" he shouted.

Anthea entered the cellar.

"Sir…"

"What is it?"

"Doctor Watson is at the main door."

"At the…?

"Great, perfect, John is here when we lost Sherlock," muttered Lestrade. "Someone is going to die today."

"Luckily for us, my little brother is always at the top of the list."

They both got into the elevator and went to the foyer. Mycroft opened the door. Behind it, an upset doctor glared at them.

"Doctor Watson, I'm glad to see you are feeling better."

"Don't give me that crap, Mycroft."

They both tried to seem confused

"I just came from your office, Greg. Anderson told me neither Sherlock nor you had set foot in there for the last few days. But every time Sherlock went out of the flat, he said he was going to meet you there, so where the hell is he?

Both Mycroft and Greg exchanged a glance.

"Well, Sherlock"… started the DI.

"No, Greg. No more lies. I don't need to be a bloody genius to know Sherlock is chasing the men who attacked me. If I'm not wrong, I asked you to warn me if that happened, and you promised to do it," he stated angrily, raising his tone at every sentence, "so, where the hell is Sherlock?" he finally shouted.

"We don't know, John."

Mycroft was about to answer when his phone buzzed again. John rolled his eyes as the older Holmes checked it.

"The garbage is here. Maybe it could give us some answers".

Both turned to look at John.

"Doctor Watson…"

"Don't dare to tell me to go back to Baker Street…"

"No, we need to show you something," Mycroft said, walking towards the cellar's door.

They entered the headquarters' room. John looked around, closing and opening his left hand, not very impressed. He knew the Holmeses' methods.

"John…, I" hesitated Greg.

"Not now, Greg."

They moved to a little, dark room with a glass wall, through which they could see a short, bald man around his fifty who, terrified, refused to answer the agents' questions, repeating one time after another that all was a misunderstanding. He was shivering and tearful, but stubbornly repeated the same sentence over and over again.

"That's enough," fumed John.

He entered the room, and before the agents could stop him, he grabbed the man by his shirt, raised him, and, in a quick movement, pushed the man on the table and twisted his arm. He screamed in pain.

"Look, asshole, either you tell us where Sherlock is, or I'll break all your bones one by one."

"I don't know any Sherlock."

"Tall guy, long coat."

The man shook his head, but John could see his eyes widened a bit. John twisted his arm a bit more, feeling the straining in the ligaments.

"He is with Moran!" he cried in agony.

John froze.

"What did you say?".

"He is with Moran, Sebastian Moran," he sobbed "it's all that I know, I swear it."

The doctor stopped breathing. He released the man, who fell to the floor, sobbing and rubbing his sore arm, muttering something about brutality.

"John, are you all right?" asked Greg, walking next to him, worried.

"Sebastian," he whispered, talking with himself. He shook his head as trying to wake up for a bad dream.

"Who is Sebastian Moran, John?" asked Greg.

"They should have warned me."

The DI and Sherlock's brother looked at him, worried. John's eyes were unfocused, lost in an unpleasant memory. Mycroft made a gesture, and the agents took the man out of the interrogation room.

"Who is Sebastian Moran, John?" asked Greg again, shaking him.

John turned to look at him and blinked, trying to focus his friend.

" My husband."

"Excuse me?" asked Mycroft high-pitched.

"I mean… he was my husband". 

"You were married? Before Sherlock? To a man?" gaped Lestrade.

John nodded.

"That's not possible. We investigated you when you started sharing the flat with my brother," objected Mycroft. His gesture of surprise turned quickly into anger. He looked at Anthea, who was looking back at him from the other side of the glass, visibly nervous, "how could that not be in Doctor Watson's report?"

The woman shrugged, quickly tapping in her phone and disappeared from their view, to avoid her boss' anger.

"Does Sherlocks know about him?" asked Greg. 

"No. It was a long time ago" John rubbed his head,

"You have a lot to explain to us, Doctor Watson" Mycroft tilted his head as he did the day he _kidnapped_ John for the first time.

"I met Sebastian in medical school. He was older than me, older than everyone. As he said, his vocation was a late one, and it wasn't until he was twenty-nine that he realized he wanted to be a doctor. We were together the first days in a chemistry practice, and we liked each other. He was intelligent, attractive, and nice, above all, he made me realize there is nothing wrong with being bisexual.

Something I was supposed to know by now, but my parents rejected Harry so much for being a lesbian, were so cruel to her, I convinced myself it was wrong to be bi. 

I fell in love with Sebastian, and soon after, I went to live with him. Because of him, I broke up with everything: my family, my friends, my old life... but I was so in love I felt it was all worth it."

John smiled and shook his head sadly. 

"We lived in a beautiful house on the outskirts of London. I had a husband I loved and who apparently loved me..., He left school shortly after we were married, but he insisted I should continue studying. He earned a lot of money investing in the market, so I dedicated myself to finish my Medical studies. It was a fucking fairy tale.

Around six months after getting married, a man entered our house, shouting at Sebastian, asking him where his son was. The security guards took him out of there. I asked Sebastian what was going on, but he told me to forget it".

"But you didn't," observed Greg.

John bit his lower lip.

"It turned out Sebastian wasn't a broker. He was a loan shark who lent money to gamblers who couldn't pay off their debts. To make them pay him back, he kidnapped their children until he got his money. If they couldn't do it, by any means, he forced them to work for him. 

He never loved me. I was just the perfect nerd. All his properties were in my name, all the companies he created to launder money were in my name. I signed, without knowing it, transactions for those launderers, because I thought I was signing stock purchase orders... and everything was happening right under my nose. Those kids were being held in the basement of the house. In the fucking basement of my house. While I was living a life of luxury, those poor devils were rotting there". 

"Yeah, it's amazing what people can hide in the basement," Greg replied, deliberately looking at Mycroft, who played the fool. "I guess with your signature on all those documents..."

The doctor nodded. 

"I was his accomplice. I was up to my eyeballs in that whole mess. I was arrested, accused of money laundering, embezzlement, and I don't know how many other things". 

"Hence your trust issues," muttered Mycroft.

John nodded.

Greg looked at him, astonished.

"I remember that case…. There was a protected witness…".

"I was offered immunity in exchange for testifying against him. I didn't do it to get out of jail. I did it for all those who Sebastian had taken advantage of for the kidnapped children. I have never been able to stand those who take advantage of the weak, who use their power against others. And I married one of them".

He clenched his fists tightly, furious with himself.

"After testifying, Sebastian tried to kill me twice. They enrolled me in a protection program for witnesses until the trial. But, I decided I didn't want to spend my life as John Smith, unable to practice medicine. So, as soon as I finished my studies, I enlisted in the army and went to Afghanistan. But I didn't count on being shot and coming back to London".

"And you decided men were over for you, so this is why you were claiming not being gay."

John nodded

"But I didn't count on meeting Sherlock either," he smiled, and the others chuckled.

"The officers of the witnesses program assured me I would be notified as soon as Moran hit the streets. But it seems someone didn't do his job".

"Do you remember their names?" asked Mycroft. John nodded and told him. The older Holmes called Anthea and recited them.

"Do you think he is back to his old ways?" asked Lestrade. "We haven't had any reports of missing children, but I guess the parents aren't in a position to report it."

John narrowed his eyes.

"I don't think so. They auctioned off all his property when he went to jail, to pay liability compensation. But we should check it. We had another house in Hampshire".

Mycroft started giving instructions to the agents, who quickly set themselves in motion. The DI looked at him.

"I don't want a lot of squad cars with the sirens blaring out, alerting him."

"We are not the stupid blokes you and Sherlock think. It's time for you to stop playing James Bond and let me do my job".

"I don't play James Bond," argued Mycroft.

"I'm stunned you know who James Bond is," teased John. His face turned severe. "I don't care who of you go, but it has to be now."

Minutes later, several black cars and several police cars drove to John's old house.


	4. You told me

Sherlock breathed in relief as the three men walked away. His body tensed again when they stopped, and the largest of them turned and walked back towards the detective. 

"You really don't care?" he asked in a raspy voice. 

"No, I just wanted to know if it was true." 

The man watched him for a few moments. Sherlock held his gaze, controlling the urge to run away. 

After a bit, he smirked, but his smile faded quickly.

"I think you should have this" he held Sherlock an old, worn-out notebook. "You will find it interesting, mostly on the last sheets."

Sherlock nodded, browsing through the notebook.

"Be careful, Holmes, that guy's a bad-ass."

"Thanks, Bob."

"It's Bill, but keep trying." The man smirked, walked to his car, and vanished in seconds.

Sherlock checked his watch. He had an hour before Moran's men appeared. He sat down on the floor, crossed his legs, opened the notebook, and, with a scowl, began to read it.

Five minutes before they get there, the detective tore a sheet from the notebook, folded it, and put in his inside jacket pocket. Then he stood and walked through the cars in the parking lot. Sherlock stopped in front of one so dusty that it was impossible to figure the color of the car body. He crawled under it and tucked the notebook between the exhaust pipe and the bottom of the car, making sure it was well hidden. He went out, shook his coat, and waited quietly.

A dark blue vehicle stopped next to him. A man stepped out and opened the trunk. Sherlock got in, as reluctantly as when he rode in his brother's cars. 

He jumped in when the man slammed the trunk shut.

An hour later, the car stopped, and he heard the squeak of an opening metal fence. Sherlock sniffed out the air. Horses.

He tensed, all his senses alerted, as the car moved and stopped again. The trunk got open, and a man urged the detective to leave it with a grunt. Sherlock followed him inside a two-story building. They went up the stairs quickly, which helped him to disentangle his legs and came to a wooden door. The man called out, opened it without waiting for an answer, and pushed Sherlock to get in.

Sebastian Moran sat on a pretentious green armchair at the end of the room, left his drink on a glass table next to him, contemplated it during a moment, and finally turned to look at Sherlock. His faded blue eyes nailed to the detective.

"You are not Barrymore," he stated, more annoyed than surprised.

"Obviously," Sherlock snapped back, looking directly at his eyes, deducing him.

"Why did you want to see me?"

Sherlock didn't respond, gazing quickly at his escorts. Moran made a gesture with his head. Both of them disappeared.

"John Watson," answered Sherlock, when they were alone, this time his gaze running across the room.

The man frowned.

"I don't know any John Watson."

"Yes, you do."

"Ok, Mr know-it-all, let's say I know him. What could you offer me?"

Sherlock took John's SIG Sauer from his coat and pointed Sebastian.

The man looked surprised for a second and then smiled like a white shark.

"My Dear Mr. Holmes, because of your fame, I thought you were smarter. Do you think you could get out of here alive?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. Then he saw it — the glow of the metal in the wall. Somebody was pointing him with a gun from behind the wall.

"Six snipers, to be more accurate," precise Moran, "Of course, you can try and shoot me, but before any of your bullets reaches me, I'll be out of here, you'll be dead, and, therefore, unable to protect Mr. Watson."

"Doctor Watson."

The man hummed.

"Oh, yes, doctor. I always forget John finished his studies. So, do yourself a favor and drop the gun".

Sherlock sighed and lowered the gun, letting it fall on the floor.

Four men entered the room, pointing him with their weapons.

"Perfect. Now, on your knees, Mr. Holmes".

"I didn't come alone," he muttered.

"Oh, yes, you did. I also do my homework. On your knees".

Sherlock looked around, moved a couple of steps back, and knelt slowly, without stop looking at Moran's eyes.

"Hands on your nape."

The detective obeyed. Sebastian stood and walked around him slowly.

He approached his hand to the detective's face. Sherlock wriggled, getting out of his reach. Sebastian chuckled and made a gesture to one of his men, who frisked him. He found his phone in Sherlock's coat pocket and gave it to his boss.

"This stays with me, Mr. Holmes. Now, let's talk about what  _ actually _ brought you here".

******

"Nothing, sir," announced Donovan, snapping her gloves after exiting from John and Moran's old house.

Lestrade cursed his hands on his waist. He didn't need a search to confirm the house has been uninhabited for a long time. In other times it was an impressive building, with its three floors, glass lookouts, and the circular penthouse, but now it only served as a refuge for cents of bugs, rodents, and birds. 

He rubbed his eyebrows and shook his head, looking at John and Mycroft. The doctor swore. The house at the beach was as abandoned like this one, as it was attested by the officers Lestrade sent to search it.

"Any other property, Doctor Watson?" asked Mycroft. "Maybe even small or…".

"No. Sebastian could be anywhere now."

"We are checking any possible rent contract signed at Sebastian Moran's name, though I doubt he had used his real name to rent someplace after leaving prison."

John nodded and dived into his mind, trying to remember some more details. But he had been trying to forget Moran for so long that he had locked his memories away in the recesses of his mind.

Suddenly, Lestrade's phone buzzed. He unlocked it and frowned.

"What the…?"

He looked hesitantly at John.

"Is he Moran?" asked the DI, showing him his phone.

John nodded, feeling revolted at the sight of his ex-husband's face. His almost white hair, faded blue eyes, and thin lips were usually so tight that they seemed to disappear from his face. How could he had been so stupid as to fall in love with him?

The phone buzzed again.

"John…" Greg called softly.

The doctor, Mycroft, Donovan, and Greg joined his heads to look at the video the DI just received from Sherlock's phone.

Two men grabbed Sherlock by the arms, while another hit him in the stomach. The detective shrank from the blow, but within seconds he looked back at Sebastian's direction, defiantly, and a new blow to his face made his head bounce from side to side.

The video was being shot from an odd angle as if the person held the camera or the phone at waist level and was not concerned about focusing on the scene. The image was frequently moving, sometimes out of focus, and had no sound.

John pressed his lips in a mixed gesture of anger and disbelief. The doctor looked at the video without blinking, as if he couldn't process what he was seeing. He tilted his head slowly, his breathing accelerated in anger.

"John?" asked Lestrade. 

He looked again at the image. Sherlock, shrinking and clenching his teeth after every blow, his covered in blood face contorting in pain, his body almost going limp with the force of the hits.

Something burst inside John, unblocking the part of him constricted since the attack, and an almost lost, but very familiar and powerful energy ran again through his body.

He looked again at Sebastian's photograph and smiled with contempt.

"Stupid," he muttered to himself.

Then he moved towards the boot of one of the black cars and opened it. He took out a Remington 870 shotgun from it and checked if it was charged.

"Doctor Watson, you shouldn't…"

"Shut up, Mycroft," snapped the doctor, pumping back and forth the shotgun's forend, "Let's go for Sherlock," he commanded, walking towards Greg's car.

"Where?" asked Greg, running after him, dragging a stunned Mycroft with him, the three of them accompanied by Donovan.

"One of Sebastian's debtors paid him with horses, and he built a stable to keep them. He sold the property to pay his bail when he was arrested. He is there".

"How are you so sure?" asked Donovan, all of them getting on the car and fastening their seat belts.

"Sebastian, after receiving the horses, wanted his own horse brand, as if he was a breeder" John rolled his eyes at his ex-husband stupidity, started the engine and made it roar, leaving the place at full speed "It's in the photograph, at his right, almost near the roof. The asshole filled the horse barn with images of it".

John was right. Greg, Mycroft, and Donovan could see a mark composed of three stars encircled by two concentric circles.

"Where is that horse barn?" asked Greg, turning around in the back seat to make sure the other cars were following them, something not easy, because the doctor was driving at a hell of a speed, easily dodging other cars.

"About fifty miles away."

Twenty minutes later, John stopped the car and pointed to a metal fence surrounded by stone walls.

"This is the main entrance. A couple of men should stay here, in case any of them try to escape from here".

"My men will take care of the surveillance system," Mycroft said, giving instructions through his phone.

John nodded.

"There are about a hundred meters to the stables, the plot extends on the other side," said John once they were out of the car, and the rest of the Yards and Mycroft's men joined them. "The building has two floors. Downstairs are the stables, upstairs the living quarters. The windows are almost all oriented to the plot, but Sebastian used to have a good group of watchmen watching the surroundings, and I don't think it has changed. We can use the racetrack fences as a parapet, but little else".

Crouched, he guided them towards a small black door embedded in the wall, almost invisible behind the ivy.

"Ready?" asked John. All the rest nodded. "Ok, Move!"

******

Sherlock cursed for himself and grunted in pain for the blow that hit his liver. He spat the blood from his mouth, panting.

Moran walked next to Sherlock and grabbed him by his hair, forcing the detective to throw his head back. Sebastian man frowned so deep that his eyebrows almost joined, giving him an animalistic and savage air, and kept on with his angry speech.

"I gave him everything, EVERYTHING!" he roared, "so he could finish his damned Medicine studies. He didn't have anything to worry about. And how did he repay me? By crossing me. And I'll tell you something, Mr. Holmes. John will betray you as he did with me. He's nothing but a backstabbing rat".

"Stop talking about John like that," panted Sherlock, menacingly.

Sebastian motioned to his goons to keep hitting him. One of them raised his fist, ready to strike the next blow.

"If he touches him again, I'll bust you."

Sherlock blinked at John's angry growl.

The doctor was pointing a shotgun directly at Sebastian's head. He kicked him behind the knee, bringing Moran to his knees. Pressing the barrel on his head, John forced him to lower it. Sebastian cursed, moving his hands behind his neck.

Three officers handcuffed the three men who had been holding and beating the detective. Mycroft helped him to sit on the floor.

"Are you ok?" John asked. Sherlock nodded.

The detective looked at John: Hands firmly grabbing the shotgun, all muscles in tension; left foot on Moran's back, pinning him tightly to the ground; his fierce look and his lips pressed into that murderous smile that announced hell was about to break loose on earth.

"Stop drooling, little brother," muttered jokily Mycroft in his brother's ear.

Sherlock snorted, and Mycroft smiled briefly, watching his brother relax for the first time in months.

"Tell them to go out." ordered the doctor to Moran.

Sebastian pursed his lips.

"Tell them to go out, or I'll blow your head off right now," John hissed, his left hand dangerously opening and closing around the trigger.

Moran made an almost imperceptible nod. There was a snap, and one of the shelves broke away from the wall. Six men came out from behind it with their hands up. The officers led them to the patrol cars, while Mycroft's men searched the building.

"Sebastian Moran, you're under arrest for the attempted murder of John Watson," announced Greg, roughly handcuffing him once John let him go.

"You don't have any evidence of it," Moran retorted, smiling.

"We have Barrymore's statement and the two assholes he recruited to murder Doctor Watson," explained Mycroft, making all heads turn at him. On his part, Sherlock suddenly seemed to be all busy wiping the blood off his face with Mycroft's handkerchief, avoiding John's incendiary stare.

An officer grabbed Sebastian and made him get up, to push him out of the room. Moran struggled to stop in front of John.

"I warned you at the trial, and I am doing it now. Sooner or later, you will pay for what you did to me".

"Try it again, and I'll be the one who ends you," threatened Sherlock, walking next to them.

Sebastian looked at him and chuckled wickedly.

"You truly are a romantic, Mr. Holmes. Defending your husband at every turn, risking your life for him... and all without having the slightest idea why I want to kill him".

"I don't give a damn about your reasons."

"Sherlock…" warned John. Sebastian glanced at him.

"He doesn't know, does he?" he asked, amused, "Oh, this is great! John didn't tell you we were married."

"Well, time to get this shit out of here," said Lestrade, pushing Moran out of the room.

John closed his eyes. That would tear the detective apart. He opened them and looked at Sherlock, frowning in bewilderment.

"You knew it."

Sherlock nodded.

"How…?"

"You told me," answered the detective, taking the folded sheet from his pocket and giving it to him.

The doctor looked at the slip, incredulous

"How... Where did you get it?"

"Bill gave it to me."

"Bill? Bill Murray?"

Sherlock nodded.

"After contacting Moran, I vetted him and found out about your marriage. I wondered who you could have trusted with a secret like this. Your army mates, obviously, brothers in arms, and so on. Bill gave me your notebook. He said I should read it".

"How did you find out about John's marriage?" cut Mycroft. "No one at the MI 6 was able to figure it out".

"The MI 6" chuckled Sherlock, without answering Mycroft's question.

Instead, he looked back at John and smirked.

"So the first time you met me, you thought I was charming," he mocked.

"And mad, pedantic, posh…" John smirked back, putting his arms around Sherlock's waist and pulling him in until the two got together.

"And charming, clever…" Sherlock intertwined his hands around the back of John's neck.

The doctor stiffened and tilted his head as if he had realized something. Sherlock tensed also.

"Hold on a second, Mr. Charming; if you read my notebook, you knew about the shooters in the wall, didn't you?"

Sherlock frowned and bit his upper lip, trying to break free from John's embrace, but failed to do so, since the doctor was holding him tight. 

"So, you not only looked for this scumbag behind my back, lied to me every time you said you were going to talk with Lestrade about the cold cases and stuck your nose into my past meeting my army mates." John's soft tone was far more frightening than any of his yells, "but you came here on your own to get Sebastian, knowing you didn't have any chance to do it…"

"In fact…"

The doctor cupped Sherlock's face.

"This," he said, glancing down to his lips, "is for everything you've done for me."

John pursed his lips gently, caressing Sherlock's lips between his, softly nibbling his lower lip. The detective glanced at Mycroft, Lestrade, Donovan, and the rest and tried to break the kiss, but John held him by the back of his neck and waist. The detective blushed, melting in the kiss. John swept the tip of his tongue over Sherlock's lower lip, with a smooth, swift motion, exploring the detective's mouth with his tongue. He smiled without breaking the kiss, noticing Sherlock's breathing quickening, his cock growing in his trousers, as his. He pressed his lips harder against Sherlock's and buried his tongue firmly in his mouth, licking around the detective's tip of his tongue until he elicited a moan from Sherlock's mouth.

John broke the kiss. The detective whined.

"And this is for all the rest."

The doctor got rid of the detective's hug, grabbed his arm, and pulled him out of the room and down the stairs.

"John?" asked a baffled Sherlock when they reached a space between the blocks. In one of the corners, there was a rectangular iron cage, open at the top and on one side.

"Don't move," ordered the doctor in his best captain's voice, making Sherlock's cock jerk hard inside his trousers, his eyes almost black with lust. 

John disappeared and came back, carrying several reins and straps. He pushed Sherlock to the end of the cage and, with rough and quick movements, tied his hands up to a ring on at the detective's waist level, with the detective facing the wall

"Do you know what this cage is?" asked the doctor, checking the ties' strength and making sure they didn't hurt Sherlock. Satisfied, he pulled the detective, making him walk backward, which forced him to bend at the waist as John moved his body away from the ring where his hands were tied.

The detective shook his head, his arms stretched out on either side of it, only centered in not losing his balance as John moved him backward. His brain had short-circuited with arousal minutes before, when John had forced him down the stairs at full speed, enjoying letting himself go, of the powerful captain taking control of his mind and body again.

John pulled his shirt out of his pants and tugged it, tearing it in two, exposing the detective's torso. Careful not to rest the rope on the bruises left by the blows, John tied him firmly to both sides of the cage, one string at the height of his nipples and another at the height of his waist. John pushed Sherlock forward slightly, and the detective moaned. The rope above his nipples had a soft coating that rubbed against them every time the detective moved.

"No, John," the detective panted, arching his back, moaning harder, stimulating his nipples himself, which made him tremble and groan again.

"Did I give you permission to speak?" barked John, smacking the detective's ass. The smack made his body shudder, and the detective exhaled a moaned whimper.

"I asked you a question."

The detective shook his head, sweating from the effort of trying not to move his body.

"Words, Holmes!" new smack and new moan, as the detective winced.

"No…"

"No? You're back to the bad habits in the last three months, Holmes".

"No, Captain," panted the detective, trying to hold a smile. John rubbed his cock over his trousers, and the detective groaned and moved his hips, looking for higher friction with John's hand, and he violently moaned with the rubbing of his nipples.

God, That was going to be hell.

John smiled mischievously.

Then he kicked Sherlock's legs, forcing him to separate them, and tied each ankle to one of the enclosure walls, completely immobilizing the detective, who emitted soft moans and whines as he was manhandled by the doctor while being tied up. 

"This is the place," explained John in a hoarse voice, throwing Sherlock's coat over his head, so the detective could not see anything "where the mares used to be bounded before they were mounted by the stallion" John unbuckled Sherlock's belt and unbuttoned his trousers. Growling, he tore them with a strong pull and threw them away, making the detective moan harder. "Once the mare was held here, the stallion fucked her at his pleasure" he ripped the detective's pants with a new pull, "which is  _ precisely _ what I'm going to do with you" he rumbled, caressing and squeezing Sherlock's firm and plump arsecheeks, gloating at the sensation, at the tremor that shook Sherlock's body as he pulled them apart to bring them back together again, enjoying his desperate moans, the sound and the redness of the pale cheeks every time he smacked them. No matter how much weight the detective lost, his ass was still rotund, plump, firm, and devourable.

Like a feline approaching its prey, John bent over Sherlock and licked his lower back, close to the arse, without touching it. His tongue slowly ran across the skin, occasionally brushing the top of the crack, returning upwards again. He took off his jumper and shirt and knelt behind the detective, licking and nibbling every inch of skin on his arsecheeks, avoiding Sherlock's entrance, moaning in delight, enraged by the increasing detective's desperate moans, which raised his arousal to stratospheric limits.

He stood up and went through the detective's coat inside pockets, where he knew there was always a little bottle of lube for emergencies. He uncapped it covered his fingers with lube.

John pressed one on Sherlock's hole, gently digging it inside, and stopped when only the first joint of his finger was inside. The detective wriggled as much as he could, trying to get the doctor's finger deeper, failing to do it. Instead, the doctor tickled Sherlock arse, softening the muscles, and finally inserting the whole finger inside.

"Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhh god" Sherlock groaned at the sensation, and he felt his cock about to explode, hearing the wanton growl that came from John's throat. The detective was grateful to be restrained. Otherwise, his legs would not have been able to hold him because of the intense feeling.

"Oh fuck, fuck, fuck," moaned Sherlock when John made his finger vibrate inside his ass, making the detective frantically pulling from the ropes every time it vibrated against his prostate, moaning madly with his nipples and his prostate stimulated.

John inhaled deeply to hold his urge for coming, while adding a new finger, thrusting it inside out a bit more roughly than usual, inflamed by Sherlock's moans, which, increasingly loud, echoed around the blocks.

He was deliberately not paying attention to Sherlock's cock. His mouth was watering from watching it dripping precum, painfully hard. John knew the detective was desperate to feel his hand or his mouth on it, and that desperation turned him on even more. He wanted the detective like that, totally undone and devastated, insane with desire to feel John's impressive cock inside him.

"Fuck me, Jo… Captain, please mmmmmmm, god, Fuck me," begged the detective.

"Eager, are we? "John teased, pulling in and out his fingers slowly.

He wouldn't mind giving in to Sherlock's pleas, but since he hadn't fucked the detective in three months, he had to make sure his hole was stretched so as not to hurt him.

He ditched his trousers and pants and stroked himself a bit, moaning hard as he pushed three fingers inside Sherlock. He twisted his hand a bit a savage groan left the detective's throat when he rubbed his prostate, fucking him with his fingers.

Unable to wait for a second more, John lined up his cock with Sherlock's entrance, and buried his cock inside him with a slow but continuous movement, growling as the detective's body literally swallowed his thick, big cock until he bottomed out, biting his lips, tilting his head slightly back at the warmness and softness engulfing his cock, as Sherlock moaned between his clenched teeth.

"Oh, god, you feel so good………" grunted John "soooo, good….... you owe me a lot of fucking, Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock groaned and grunted, unable to speak or think, only to surrender the feeling of John's impressive, throbbing cock buried inside him.

The doctor bent to kiss Sherlock's neck, nipping roughly at the flesh, living purple marks on it.

"Mo…ve....." panted the detective. 

The doctor didn't move an inch.

"Please, captain, please, fuck me, I need you to fuck me," Sherlock almost sobbed.

John pulled almost all the way out of Sherlock. One of his hands grabbed the detective's hips, the other tangled into Sherlock's curls; tugging at his hair in the way he knew drove the detective's mad, he thrust inside again, embedding himself in one smooth, long and slow slide. With a deep groan, he started rocking into Sherlock at a steady pace, stroking the detective's prostate with every thrust,

"Oh, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, oh god yes" chanted Sherlock at the rhythm of John's deep thrusts "faster.., harder" he moaned desperately.

John increased his pace, pushing faster into him. Sherlock tried to arch his back, as high whines got out from his lips, feeling John's cock pounding harder, violently shaking Sherlock's body, pulling the restraints with every nudge, the metal cage creaking loud.

"Shit, Sherlock, you should see how perfect you look, taking my cock so perfectly," gasped John, rolling his hips and wildly drilling Sherlock arse.

The detective came with an animal groan, the ring of muscles clenching around John's cock, his body shuddering heavily as his cock spurted, while John rode him even harder through his orgasm.

"Fuck, sorry," he groaned, his voice jumping with John's pushes, his cock throbbing, getting hard again.

"Bad habits Holmes," the doctor scowled, brutally thrusting in, smashing his cock against the detective's prostate, shooting a massive wave of pleasure through his body with each thrust.

"ngggggggggg Jo….. Captain………. Fuck…….. I can't ahhhhhhhhh, I can't take ……it".

John's hand slapped sharply against Sherlock's ass, moaning aloud as the detective cursed, his cock impossibly hard again, intoxicated by the delicious cries that came from the detective's mouth with every pass.

The doctor placed his hands on the cage walls to get better support and began railing him harder and faster, making Sherlock's eyes roll to the back of his head, his mouth gaping open with loud groans, as John howled, sensing his orgasm burning inside him.

He grabbed Sherlock cock and stroked it. The detective made a choking noise, moaning breakly, his oversensitive body writhing and wriggling under John's thrusts. The doctor gave a particularly hard push, and Sherlock cried out loudly.

"I'm… I' m…., "he panted. He was unable to control himself, overwhelmed by the sensations, the restraints, John's strength, the feeling of his cock inside him again, the warmth of his body, the energy of his thrusts, his desire, his smell… all like before.

John flicked his thumb over the head of Sherlock's cock and was rewarded with a magnificent groan mixed with cracked whines from the detective.

"Hold yourself. I want you to come with me," ordered John in a husky voice, panting with the effort, so intoxicated with feelings as Sherlock. He was close, so close, but he wanted to make last the moment as much as he could.

Sherlock clenched his teeth and tried to stead his breath. He felt John close, and he worked with all his forces to hold the orgasm, a losing battle with John's cock crushing his prostate, jerking him and his nipples stimulated by the rope.

"Come for me, Sherlock."

Sherlock came again, moaning John's name repeatedly, just as John's orgasm hit him hard, the doctor shouted the detective's name, filling his ass with his cum, as he gave the last hard trusts inside Sherlock, both bodies shaking and shivering in orgasmic bliss.

John dropped on Sherlock's body. The detective emitted a series of short wails while panting through his open mouth, his body hanging limp from the ropes, as John gasped for air.

They remained in this position for a while, until the doctor stood up and untied the detective. John sat on the bottom of the cage, and leaned his back against one of the walls, embracing Sherlock as the detective sat on his lap, his head rested on John's shoulder. The doctor caressed Sherlock's torso until the detective's body stop shivering, and his breathing got steady again.

"Thanks, love," the doctor said, softly kissing Sherlock's neck. "Thanks for helping me to find myself again. I wouldn't have made it without you".

Sherlock smiled tiredly, turning his head to kiss him. Then he scowled and looked down.

"I'm sorry, John."

John frowned. He knew Sherlock wasn't talking about sneaking into Moran's house.

"I shouldn't have... overprotected you as much as I did and...."

"Shhhhh, love. You cared for me, you healed me, and now, you helped me to become myself again. Maybe not by the most direct route, but you got it.

"Do you really think so?"

"Of course I do.

Sherlock smiled, comforted, closed his eyes, and sighed.

"John…".

"Hmmmm?"

"Any other secret husband I should know?"

John chuckled.

"Nope, no more torrid past secrets" his gesture became severe. "I'm sorry, I didn't tell you. I tried so hard to forget it that I almost convinced myself it hadn't happened. Later, I was afraid you would leave me if you found out".

"I'm not one to blame for past mistakes," Sherlock said, moving his arms slightly, so the inside of his forearms became visible "or for keeping secrets."

They both kissed softly.

"I love you, John." 

"I love you, Sherlock," he smiled softly, "Time to go, Charming."

Both looked at Sherlock's torn clothes.

"You have to stop ripping up my clothes, John."

"Luckily, you have your coat" the doctor closed his eyes "You naked under your coat… Do you know how many times I have dreamt about that?"

"Of course, I do."

"Of course you do," John smiled. 

Sherlock stood up, groaning in pain.

"Let's go home."

"Oh no, not home. We are going to the hospital so that they can check you," ordered John, helping the detective put his coat on. 

"I don't need a hospital. And I can't get there without wearing trousers".

"You didn't seem so concerned about it in Buckingham Palace."

Both laughed at the memory, walkings towards the car waiting for them.


	5. Some day you are going to kill me

"Is this the last one?" asked Greg as one of the officers pressed the detainee's head down into the squad car.

Sherlock and John nodded at the same time. Greg sighed, shaking his head, and turned to Donovan.

"Expedite the paperwork so they can be brought to justice as soon as possible. With their confession and the evidence, there's little else we can do now."

The sergeant nodded, glancing sideways at the detective and the doctor. Since Moran's arrest, both had been working to dismantle the extortion ring that John's ex had set up in record time immediately after his release from prison. Lestrade arrested twenty-two suspects in a week, some of Moran's old acquaintances who did not hesitate to return to him as soon as their former boss contacted them, and some new acquisitions or former debtors. All of them confessed, some of them even in the squad car, before arriving at New Scotland Yard headquarters.

Donovan approached them again.

"We're going to have a drink. Are you in?

"I'm going home, then," replied Sherlock immediately.

"No, you're coming with us," ordered John.

The detective looked annoyed but just shrugged his shoulders and said, 'If necessary..."

Greg smiled. He would have to ask John to teach him that trick.

Soon the four of them, accompanied by Dimmock and several Yarders, were standing at a table in the nearest NSY pub, the yarders visibly uncomfortable in Sherlock's presence. Although they no longer thought of him as a corpse-thirsty psychopath, as Donovan said, they were not used to the taciturn detective's presence in their midst.

"Well, what are you going to do now?" asked Lestrade, slyly, "without your ex, without staples..."

"We'll think of something," smiled John, raising an eyebrow and glancing sideways at Sherlock, who bit his upper lip and flushed, staring at his pint.

The pub's door opened, and Bill Murray, accompanied by John's other two army buddies, Tony and Stephen, entered the pub. The three of them were commenting on something and laughing their heads off as they approached them.

"Hey, Cap," greeted Bill, tapping John on the shoulder. "How's it going?"

Sherlock pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Here we are, having a drink, with DI Greg Lestrade, Sergeant Sally Donovan, DI Dimmock and other officers from New Scotland Yard," announced John. They looked at him in astonishment because John sounded like a Herald at Arms, announcing them as if they were attending a party at Buckingham Palace.

"And don't forget our friend Sherlock Holmes," cried Bill, to the Yarder's amazement, running his arm around the detective's shoulders and drawing him in. The detective stiffened but didn't try to get out of the ex-soldier's embrace. "I haven't had this much fun in a long time."

"Okay, but let him go. He's going to have a heart attack," Tony sneered, laughing.

John made a gesture with his head, and Bill immediately freed Sherlock. The detective threw him an offended look, and, almost imperceptibly, came closer to John, who squeezed his hand reassuringly.

Greg's phone ringed.

"Lestrade," he answered. He frowned deeply, "Repeat that!. When?" Donovan, John, Sherlock, and the other officers turned to him. "All right, take their statements and send them home."

Greg hung up and stared at Sherlock, then at John, squinting. The detective watched him in turn, Greg would swear that with a gleam of triumph in his piercing eyes. John turned to the detective and then to the DI.

"Sherlock, you don't have anything to do with the disappearance of the van in which Moran was going to prison, do you?"

Sherlock shrugged.

"I'm here with you. I don't even know what you're talking about."

"Sure, and I suppose your brother's in his office, too." Greg sneered. "I'm really sick of you two," he turned to John. "The van in which Moran was being transferred from New Scotland Yard to the prison has vanished. The driver and the officers have been found, bound and gagged, at a gas station near the point where the escort cars lost sight of the van".

As he spoke, he noticed the doctor was utterly calm and, which was more suspicious, he and Sherlock avoided making eye contact. If there had been the slightest chance Moran had been rescued by one of his buddies, neither of them would have been so quiet, so it was obvious (he smiled to himself as he used the same word as the detective) that whoever had taken the van had not done it to free Moran, and Sherlock and John knew it.

He sighed and looked at Donovan, who slightly shook her head and raised her eyebrows gesturing towards John's army mates, who suddenly seemed very concentrated in their drinks.

Sherlock's phone buzzed.

"I have to go," he announced.

"Where are you going?" asked Greg.

"A case," answered the detective. He gave John a quick kiss on the lips and rushed out of the pub, visibly relieved.

"What we are going to do with the van, sir?" asked Donovan.

Greg shrugged.

"Not my division. The relevant department will take care of it," he said, settling down on the seat and having a long drink of beer. "But something tells me we won't have to worry about Moran anymore, right, guys?" he asked, addressing Bill, Tony, and Stephen, who ostensibly ignored him.

"We have to go too," suddenly announced Bill. He reached into his inside jacket pocket, pulled out the tattered notebook Sherlock hidden below the abandoned car for a week, and handed it to John.

"Thank you for giving it to Sherlock," smiled John, grateful.

"He didn't give a damn about you being married or was upset because you didn't tell him anything. He only wanted to keep you safe. This is why I gave it to him," explained Bill as John took it. The doctor felt strange, holding it in his hands again. "Don't let the posh baby get away," advised Bill. "He's a great guy," Bill looked sideways at the officer who snorted at those words, "and he truly loves you. Not to mention he's got a scandalous ass."

They both chuckled, hugging each other affectionately. John hugged Tony and Stephen, too, and the three of them left the premises.

"I started writing it down when I was in custody, waiting to testify against Moran," John explained, as Greg looked at the notebook inquisitively. "I was going crazy, hidden in that tiny apartment with the officers, and writing was very helpful in getting through it all."

"And the sheet that Sherlock gave you?"

"I felt guilty for not telling him about Moran from the beginning, but I didn't dare to do it. So I wrote down what I would have liked to say to him. But then I got scared that Sherlock could find the notebook; you know his private property idea is very… elastic, so I gave it to Bill to keep it for me."

"And you traded the notebook for the blog."

John smiled.

"Something like that."

"What are you going to do with it now?"

The doctor shrugged.

"Burn it, I think. At least that's what you have to do to conjure up the past, right?"

"Shouldn't you keep it in case Moran reappears?" Donovan asked, worried.

"Believe me, Sally, Moran will not reappear," John said.

"Oh, the "the case" understood Donovan.

Greg raised his eyebrows.

"I guess he's with Mycroft."

John nodded.

"I don't know anything else. They both thought it was better that way, and I agree. Same for you."

"I swear I can't wait for the truce to be over, because the two of them working together..." Greg shook his head, overcome.

"The truce?" another officer asked.

"When Sherlock and Mycroft started investigating who stabbed John, all they did was argue," explained Greg, "so they decided, for John's sake, to sign a truce until everything was sorted out."

"I wouldn't want to be the one present next time they met," chuckled John.

"Don't worry; I'll have Mycroft drop some steam" Greg smiled, naughtily.

"Oh, that reminds me..." John smiled in the same way, took his phone and typed quickly.

_ "Naked. On your knees. JW."  _

_ "Now? Ml6 will love you. Mycroft might not. SH."  _

John drowned out a laugh at Sherlock's derision.

_ "Don't even think about it, git. At home. JW." _

"What I can't figure out is how Mycroft couldn't find out about your marriage, and Sherlock could," said Greg.

John shrugged, putting away his phone, nonchalantly.

"Bill had friends in Military Intelligence. They erased the files and destroyed all the documents concerning my life with Sebastian, not just the wedding, making it disappear in perpetuity." John took a sip of his beer. "That's why Mycroft didn't find any trace of it. And for Sherlock..., you know him. In one of his cases, before I met him, he saved the daughter of one of the members of that Military Intelligence group from going to prison on a false charge. As soon as Sherlock pulled some strings, he didn't hesitate to help him".

"Is there anyone in this town who doesn't owe him a favor?" Greg chuckled.

"I doubt it."

Greg rushed the glass and left it on the table.

"Time to go finish the paperwork."

"Do you need me?" John asked.

"Just a couple of signatures. Then you can go home."

The three left the pub and made their way to Lestrade's office, just a few blocks away.

"Well, that's it," said Greg a bit later, when John signed the last document the DI presented to him, "your past with Sebastian is officially buried again."

John rubbed his face and remained silent for a moment.

"You okay?"

The doctor nodded.

"Yes, burying it in my memory also. I have to ask Sherlock to teach me how to delete things from it," he smirked. "I always thought when Sherlock found out about my past with Moran, and I knew he would do it one day, it would destroy us. And in a way, it almost did. But, in the end, it brought us closer than ever. It made us face our fears, talk about them, and overcome them together".

"Eventually, you're gonna have to buy Moran some drinks," Greg mocked.

"More likely, Mrs. Hudson."

Both chuckled, imagining Mrs. Hudson in the pub.

"I bet you anything she'd knock us all out."

"You can be sure of that."

"Well, I'm going home. Sherlock will be here by now, and I don't want to keep him waiting too long".

Joh's playful tone made Greg smirk. When John left, he took his phone and sent a text. The DI was about to get his coat when Sally came in with a load of files.

"I'm bringing you hours of fun with the confessions of Moran's cronies," she mocked.

Greg groaned and gestured to the chair in front of his table.

"Come on, the sooner we start, the sooner we finish."

Soon the two were almost buried by papers.

****

When John came home, Sherlock was reading a book, sitting on the couch, fully clothed, legs crossed, lazily balancing his foot, ostensibly ignoring the instructions the doctor gave him on the phone.

John raised his right eyebrow and smiled to himself, his cock twitching. Sherlock was challenging him. And if there was anything that aroused him more than a submissive Sherlock, it was submitting him. 

Slowly, he took out his jacket, hung it on the rack, and took off his jumper as Sherlock pretended to ignore his presence, focused in his book. But the doctor noticed the detective's Adam's apple going up and down as he swallowed hard when he undid the cuffs of his shirt and rolled up his sleeves, showing his muscular forearms. 

John went to the kitchen and prepared himself a cup of tea, feeling Sherlock's look following his every move. He saw the detective's lips parting as John licked his lower lip, staring at Sherlock with the devouring look of a tiger watching his prey.

John left his cup in the sink. Sherlock tensed

The doctor strolled to the door and locked it, smirking at the sound of a new gulp from Sherlock. Then walked towards the detective with the confidence of a predator who knows his prey has no escape,

He bent down and glued his mouth to Sherlock's ear, who held a shudder, feeling John's breathing at his neck.

"You disobeyed me,"

Sherlock did not answer, fighting a chill that ran down his back with John's rough voice rumbling in his ear. The whispered words contained a hint of warning that the detective did not miss.

"And you know what happens when you disobey me, don't you?"

Sherlock nodded, closing his eyes.

The doctor grabbed the detective's hair and pulled towards him, forcing Sherlock's head back, while with the other hand, he slowly unbuttoned his shirt.

Sherlock groaned softly, but he did not move. He was not allowed to. It was his punishment for disobeying John. And he knew the doctor wouldn't make it easy for him.

The doctor let go of his hair and stood in front of him. He put his hands on Sherlock's shoulders and pushed the detective until his back reached the couch. A small tap with his foot on the detective's ankle made him bring his legs on the couch. John straddled his lower abdomen, avoiding brushing himself against Sherlock's crotch.

John grabbed his wrists and drew them up, pressing them once, indicating the detective he shouldn't move them from where he had left them. He bent over him so that his mouth was inches away from the detective's.

"Remember what I promised you the night you told me I couldn't fuck you slowly?" the doctor whispered the words teasingly into Sherlock's plump lips, almost touching them, but not turning the rubbing into a kiss at any time.

Sherlock closed his eyes and moaned softly.

"Look at me," ordered John.

Sherlock opened his eyes, reluctant. He would be lost if he plunged into John's blue eyes, which promised him he would be savored alive.

"I'm giving you a chance to take back what you said," John continued his voice this time a little rougher, threatening, rumbling in Sherlock's head, disabling the impressive machinery of the detective's brain, making him surrendering without John even touching him, "If you don't, I'm going to do everything I want with you so slowly, that you'll lose track of who you are before I'm done with you. I swear I won't stop until I'm satiated, no matter how many times you beg for mercy".

Sherlock bit his lower lip, feeling his cock getting hard at John's words.

"I've never begged in my life," he finally answered, his voice merely a whisper.

John smiled wickedly, remembering the first time he heard those words coming from Sherlock's lips.

"Do you know the difference between Irene Adler and me?"

Sherlock shook his head.

"I keep my promises."

He waited for half a minute, letting his words invade Sherlock's brain like a virus, short-circuiting it.

John forced Sherlock to stand up slightly to remove his shirt and kissed the detective fiercely, invading his mouth with his tongue, holding the detective firmly by the hair, so that he could only let John fuck his mouth with his tongue, while he emitted small, staccato moans. Before ending the kiss, John captured Sherlock's lower lip between his teeth and sucking sharply, biting and pulling it slightly, then releasing it, looking at the detective's red, swollen lip. His mouth drew the line of Sherlock's jaw, to continue bitting down on Sherlock's neck, sucking bruises on it.

John caught Sherlock off guard. His movements were fast and hungry, far away from the promised slowness, sinking his teeth into the detective's neck and collarbones.

Neglecting Sherlock's nipples and abdomen, John dipped down and nipped at the detective's hips, his teeth scraping lightly over the sharp bones. His mouth came back to his neck and, from them, he licked all the marks he made on Sherlock's pale and sensitive skin, his tongue retracing his body from his neck to the waist of the detective's trousers, as Sherlock groaned softly, his knuckles white due to the force he was clenching the sofa with his hands.

Softly, John caressed Sherlock's cock over the fabric of his trousers, only a feather-like touch that elicited a deep moan from Sherlock, and the touch ended.

John began slowly unzipping the detective's trousers. Excruciatingly slowly unzipped and pull his them down, as long as his pants. Sherlock's cock sprang free, laying on his belly, already dripping. John slid down, rubbing his body with the detective's, making him aware of the large hot bulge trapped in his trousers until his mouth circled over Sherlock's cock. He blew a warm breath on the tip, and the detective's whole body jerked.

John slapped Sherlock's cock, making him moan and hiss at the same time.

"Don't move," he groaned, wrapping his fingers around the base, turning Sherlock's moans in shocked gasps as he took the dripping head between his lips and engulfed it with his mouth, suctioning it between deep groans and hums of pleasure.

He grabbed it and took it out of out his mouth with a loud pop and, noisily and enthusiastically licked the crown, sliding the tip of his tongue over the slit, groaning in arousal, knowing that sounds would break the last detective's defenses, greedily drinking every drop of precum that dripped from Sherlock's cock. The detective tensed his body with the effort of not twisting it or bucking his hips as John ordered, while his moans, the only way to release some tension, grew higher and higher, in harmony with John's tongue movements and sounds.

The doctor seemed in a rush to make Sherlock reach his orgasm, as the detective fought to keep still; his body was trembling from toes to head, and his senses started to overload. He could feel every lick, every swirl of John's tongue around the tip of his cock, the vibration of the doctor groan's and hums over his shaft, the vision of John's head bobbing up and down on him and the moment he swallowed the whole length to the back of his throat, making Sherlock moaning desperately, with groans mixed with pathetic whines as John's tongue ran over the slit, interspersed with sobbed wails when John sucked the head of his cock, making his vision blur.

"Sir……" he moaned, desperate for grabbing John's hair, his head dizzy, his body melting, focused on the sensations on his cock, on the waves of infinite pleasure the doctor sent to the core of Sherlock's brain. He clenched his hands on the couch and shouted as John squeezed his balls gently, without stop sucking him, prompting a combination of pain and pleasure through his body that made the detective moan chockedly and, rolling his eyes, he came hard on John's mouth.

The doctor kept sucking in his cock while Sherlock came, delighted with the detective's clenched eyes, his thrown back head, his mouth open in a silent cry of agonic pleasure as John swallowed his cum, this time letting Sherlock's hips bucking wildly, pushing his cock deeper inside John's throat. The detective's body spasmed with every brush of the tip of his cock on the doctor's throat, which drove over him a new wave of orgasmic pleasure that made him bucking madly and spasm over and over again, as John dried the last drop of cum.

He didn't stop when Sherlock whined and grunted in oversensitivity, fighting the urge to push John's mouth away from his cock. Instead, the doctor sucked the head of his cock, licking his frenulum, his own cock about to explode listening to Sherlock tortured moans, feeling his trembling body under his, playfully nipping at the detective's cock head when he tried to pull away, without ever letting their prey escape.

"Fuck…….. ngggggggggg ahhhhhhhhh, enough ngggggggg oh gggggggggggod" Sherlock screamed when John caressed his balls and perineum, sucking him deep until the detective arched his back and came again, John greedily drinking him until Sherlock's moans turned into frantic sobbed whines.

Only then, John let Sherlock's cock out of his mouth and move up to kiss him, making the detective taste himself while the doctor rubbed his hard thick cock over Sherlock's body with circular motions of his hips. He sat between Sherlock's shaky tights and looked at him. The detective was a mess, flushing and panting through his open mouth, his eyes blown wide. He was still shivering and softly moaning through the last waves of his orgasm.

But John had no intention to stop. 

The doctor climbed down the couch and took Sherlock's limp body between his arms, charging him bridal style. John knew the feeling of his strong arms, holding him turned Sherlock on as hell.

With resolute strides, the doctor walked to the bedroom and tossed Sherlock on the bed. The detective's body bounced off the mattress. Before he knew what was happening, John put his arms under the detective's body and, with a sharp jerk, turned him over, so that he would be lying on his stomach. John jumped on him, crushing the detective's body with his own against the mattress.

Sherlock struggled, trying to find support for his hands to get the doctor off his back. Still, the doctor quickly grabbed his wrists and forced him to extend his arms upwards, pushing the detective's body even deeper into the mattress, ignoring Sherlock's grunts and protests, aware of, however much he protested, that display of force made Sherlock utterly horny.

Without letting go of Sherlock's arms, John rubbed his groin against his ass. Sherlock pulled it, to rub it even more against John's cock, to make him lose control, but the doctor began to move powerfully on Sherlock, pushing back and forth as if he were fucking him, making the detective's nipples and cock rub roughly on the soft cotton sheets. Sherlock shuddered up and down, groaning loudly, and even louder as the doctor went on to hold both of his arms in one hand while with the other hand he held the detective's neck, plunging his head into the mattress.

When the detective's moaning showed he was galloping towards a new orgasm, John stopped in its tracks. He stripped himself and fell back on Sherlock's body like a bird of prey, sticking his rock-hard cock between the detective's plump, firm arsecheeks, feeling them around his cock, and bathing the detective's lower back with precum.

In one of the pushes of John's impressive cock, Sherlock froze, opening his eyes. He just realized John turned every inch of his body overwhelmingly sensitive. He turned his head to look sideways at John, who read in his eyes the spark of understanding from the detective and outlined a smile of triumph as he saw the doubt cross Sherlock's eyes.

"Sir, I..."

"Too late, pet."

Sherlock groaned.

John left the detective's body and made him turn around. He tied each of the detective's hands to each corner of the headboard. John lowered his head and began to kiss Sherlock slowly, running his lips inch by inch, first over the detective's lower lip, then the upper. With the tip of his tongue, he made the same route, tracing his lips with it and introduced the tip through the detective's half-open lips, licking the inside of them, caressing them lightly with his tongue, without exerting too much pressure, just enough for Sherlock's cock to wake up again.

His lips moved across Sherlock's jaw from one end to the other, sometimes taking small, gentle bites, which made the detective moan, amidst gasps of sensation and anticipation.

He licked each of the tendons in his neck, insisting on those sensitive spots where Sherlock shrugged his shoulders, trying to protect them, sometimes getting a giggle from the detective, others a groan, and another a profound sight. The doctor's tongue and hot breath were killing him, as were the warm drops of John's precum which, one after another, kept falling on his abdomen, reminding him, with rhythmic insistence, how close and how far away was John's impressive cock, pushing him a little more and more into a pleading, into the desire to be impaled by his doctor.

John smiled as he traced the line of the sternum with his tongue. The detective tried to sink into the mattress. He knew that John's next stop would be his nipples, and John's attack would be devastatingly intense and slow.

When his mouth reached the left nipple, he licked it with his flat tongue, slowly, taking his time between licks, while the detective moaned and arched his back. The doctor lapped it until the nub was wholly swollen, and then brushed the tip of his tongue over the tip of the nipple.

"Oh………godmmmmmmmmmm" moaned Sherlock, pulling from his restraints, as John licked his nipple slowly, only the tip of his tongue playing with it, moving it up and down, circling it from the top of the nipple until the base, and going again to the tip in the opposite way.

He then moved to the right nipple, playing with it in the same way, until Sherlock's cock was hard again and his moans desperate, his back arching beautifully, rewarding the doctor with the vision of the well-defined muscles contracting and extending with movement, the pectorals, the abdominals, feeling the muscles of the detective's back prominent under the skin when, taking advantage of his arched position, he ran it up and down with his fingertips. Sherlock then pressed himself against the mattress, trying to squeeze John's hands, but the doctor only had to suck again on one of his nipples to make Sherlock arch his back again with a delicious feline movement.

His tongue went down to the navel, which he slowly circled, avoiding at all times Sherlock's pulsating hard cock. Leisurely, he moved down to the groins, licking both without touching the detective's balls who, hot and untouched, began to moan in desperation.

John wouldn't last much longer before he came, but he wanted to continue messing with the detective before fucking him, so he sat astride Sherlock's shoulders, the tip of his cock inches from Sherlock's mouth. The detective licked his lips and tried to lower his head, but John prevented him from doing it, firmly holding him by the hair.

"Open wide," he rumbled.

Sherlock obeyed, and John pushed his hard rock cock inside his mouth as deep as he could without choking the detective, moaning at the warmness and the softness of Sherlock's lips as he thrust back and forth inside the detective's mouth.

He grabbed the headboard with one hand and slowly started fucking Sherlock's mouth, each time pushing a little deeper, grunting in pleasure as the detective's plump, reddened lips devoured his hard cock, pushing against the back of Sherlock's throat, moaning harder when the tip contacted with it.

Sherlock eagerly sucked John's cock, which wasn't easy since he was unable to move his head, due to the tight grip John had on his hair. He wasn't either in control of how deep or fast the doctor fucked his mouth, but he knew what would make John wild, so he started moaning and rumbling over his cock, the vibrating running along with John's cock, balls, groin, and belly. The right corner of his mouth rose when John, moaning harder, changed the pace and started fucking him faster, pushing the tip of his cock deep in his throat, making Sherlock choppily gasp for air when he pulled out to make another push.

The detective, controlling his gag reflex, opened his throat as much as he could, as John pounded on him deep and roughly. Sherlock's eyes filled with tears when the doctor started thrusting unevenly on his mouth until he came hard, groaning and cursing, pushing inside his mouth as deep as he could, squirting inside his throat until the detective's face reddened.

John pulled his cock out and gave Sherlock a bit to catch his breath again, stroking his hair softly while he panted and gasped for air.

The doctor crawled next to Sherlock's feet and pushed them up, opened his legs wide, and softly ran his fingers from both ankles to the back of the knees, caressing them. The detective moaned and instinctively tried to bend his legs.

He tilted his head with a mute warning, and Sherlock extended his legs again. John ran the tip of his fingers across the sensitive skin. He tensed his muscles as John's hands moved slowly again from his ankles through the back of his legs to behind his knees, jerking a bit when the doctor feigned to caress the back of his thighs.

John's hands made the reverse journey from the knees to the insteps. His hands went up again, tortuously slow, excruciatingly smooth from the ankles to the back of the knees and down the thigh towards the detective's ass. Sherlock shivered at the caressing, grunting in frustration for not being able to stop it.

The doctor grabbed the detective's ankles and raised his wide-open legs, approaching Sherlock's ankles to the headboard, so he was almost bent over. Thanks to his flexibility, he knew the detective was comfortable in that position. Then John tied his right ankle to a cuff joined to his right wrist and did the same with the left to the one on the right side. He loved this position because it got Sherlock wholly opened and exposed to John.

His hands moved down from his ankle and groped Sherlock's ass, squeezing and cupping the plump, firm cheeks with his hands.

"You are gorgeous," the doctor moaned; Sherlock blushed. He had never felt so exposed, so at John's mercy, and that excited and embarrassed him in equal parts.

He slapped Sherlock ass, making his skin sting, and the detective gasped. Then caressed it, and gave him a new smack, as the detective hissed, his cock impossibly hard. John slapped his ass once more and was rewarded with a whispered moan from Sherlock, his eyes closed for embarrassment, biting his lips at the new hit, harder than the previous one.

John moved forward, caressing Sherlock's lips, his hands running again over his collarbones, nipples, stomach, avoiding his aching cock, and resting on his ass. His fingers tickled the back of Sherlock's tights, moved between his legs, and ran over the crack of his ass. Sherlock moaned harder, John's fingers moving deliberately slow, leaving a trail of goosebumps wherever they went.

John bent down and, with a flat tongue, licked the crack of Sherlock's ass, followed the perineum, and ran over his whole cock to the tip, then going back, barely touching Sherlock's puckered hole, which was shaking with excitement.

"Oh, mmmmmmy God" moaned Sherlock loudly as John's tongue repeated his travel from his hole to the tip of his cock, licking the slit and going back through his shaft, his balls, his perineum, running between his arsecheeks, tapping slightly, making the detective cry wantonly. 

John moved his tongue gently, feeling Sherlock shiver at every caress, or rub, while the tip of his tongue circled his hole.

The doctor covered his fingers in lube and pushed one inside Sherlock, at the same slow pace as with his tongue, slowly fuking the detective with it, while his tongue rubbed his perineum, licked his balls and went back to lick around his hole, knowing the devastating action of his finger and mouth was getting the detective mad.

"Sir…mmmmmmmmmm oh my mmmmmmmmmmm no mmmmmm ahhhhhhhhhhh"

John kept the same slow rhythm with his tongue and mouth as his other hand travel slowly across Sherlock's abdomen, caressing it, while the detective tried to jerk his body and move his hips, whiteout achieving it due to the restraints.

John pulled out his finger and pushed inside again, two fingers this time, slowly, inch by inch invading Sherlock's ass, getting back at the same pace and once more inside while his tongue circled Sherlock's hole. Just when he twisted his hand and rubbed Sherlock's prostate, his other hand pinched his right nipple, and Sherlock yelled, pulling at the restraints, groaning in excitement and frustration.

The slow pace and the soft touches, pinches, and licks wouldn't make him come but were getting him all the time at the verge of the orgasm, his abdomen tingling, the pleasure flooding through him, all his body reduced to the spots John teased.

"Too much?" asked the doctor with pretended innocence, as Sherlock threw his head back and gritted his teeth, contracting his muscles around John's fingers.

Sherlock, his hair glued due to sweat, shooked his head stubbornly. John smirked and inserted a third finger, as his tongue moved again over Sherlock's perineum and balls, going to the tip of his cock and lapping it. His hand abandoned the detective's nipple, and Sherlock sighed, a bit relieved, between moans.

A hum filled the air, and John rubbed a vibrator over the tip of Sherlock's cock. It was at his minimum speed, and it traveled slowly over his cock, as John kept fucking him with his three fingers, licking and nibbling his perineum and balls, making the detective's body shuddered.

Finally, from Sherlock's mouth scaped a whimpering, pathetic mixed sound of surrender.

"Please…… faster…….. I need ohhhhhhhhhh God I need……….. please, faster, faster, ngggggg I can't…..………."

The detective begged, desperate for release, desperate to have John inside him, to be fucked insanely hard and fast. He needed that to end. It was so pleasuring that his body was melting on the sensation, but his body cried for release, ached for it, the arousal bubbling inside him, but never getting the chance to go further…

John loved it. Loved when Sherlock got like this, so needy, devastated, and wrecked. With surgical precision, he kept on stimulating the detective's body, as his starving moans filled the room with such volume that John thanked the day they decided to soundproof Sherlock's bedroom.

"Fuck me……please……… gnnnnnnnnnn do something……. Sir……. I'm gnnnnnnnnnnnn beggingggggggnnnnnnnnnn," the detective cried, almost sobbing, desperately pleading for it to end. 

John fought to keep his self-control, almost as on the verge of coming as the detective was. If manhandling Sherlock, submitting him by force had something wild and primal on it, making him surrender through pleasure was extraordinarily erotic and, somehow, even more powerful, since he fucked Sherlock's brain and body at the same time.

"ohhhhhhhhhhhhh yessssssssssss" roared the detective when he finally felt the head of John's cock pressing against his hole. He tried to move his hips to rock them to force the doctor's cock inside him, but the bondage didn't allow him to do it. He moaned in frustration as John growled in pleasure, breathing deep not to lose control now, feeling Sherlock's muscles clenching around the head of his cock.

He took his cock out of Sherlock, and the detective whined, struggling against his restraints. But he got what John meant, and when he put his cock out of his ass again, Sherlock relaxed his muscles as much as he could. Even so, he clenched his teeth, adjusting to the size. John's cock felt more swollen than ever.

"Ohhhhhhh fuck Sherlock……ohhhhh, you are...glorious…….." moaned John, greeting his teeth, holding back the impulse of thrust hard inside him, of impaling the detective in one movement and possessing him with a brutal pounding. When he regained his control, he pushed inside Sherlock slowly, allowing Sherlock to take him little by little as the detective moaned both in frustration and pleasure.

When he has almost all this cock inside him, he slammed hard, making Sherlock cry in surprised pleasure.

He took it out again, He would love to continue teasing Sherlock, driving him crazy, but his capacity for restraint had reached its limit. Having Sherlock there, completely exposed and subdued, totally his own, broke all his barriers of containment and, overcame by desire, he sank his thick cock into the detective with a single stab and began to fuck him at a feverish, almost hellish pace, his hips pistoning with force and speed, as Sherlock moaned and squirmed, or at least tried to, with each of his brutal onslaughts, each of which drew a scream of intense pleasure from the detective's throat and a loud groan from the doctor's, who, inflamed, seemed to want to ram Sherlock against the headboard, mercilessly hammering his prostate with each deep thrust.

Sherlock closed his eyes and clenched his teeth, and his body started squirming. He was close to coming; his body writhed almost desperately, while his panting and moaning interspersed with a kind of wail of pleasure that drove the doctor crazy

"John………. John……….. ohmmmmm ohmmmmmmm mmmmmm oh gooddddddddddddd oh fuuuuuuuuuuuck ahhhhhhhh"

John stopped the pushing for a moment, keeping Sherlock from coming, which let the detective's whimpering and almost sobbing.

"Please, Johnnnnn, don't stop…. I can't… not more, I need …. I need…, please, please......" he gasped.

"Do you want to come? Do you  _ actually _ want to come?"

Something in the doctor's tone made the detective remind silent for a few seconds until he nodded madly. John watched his thighs quiver, his mouth open, his chest rising and falling, and his cock about to burst and licked his lips like a lion about to sink its teeth into its prey.

He turned for a moment, to start fucking Sherlock again at full power, which renewed the detective's desperate moans

"Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes," shouted the detective, feeling the orgasm invade him. "Harder, harder, faster oh, yes, oh yes, oh god, yesssss."

He closed his eyes tightly again, threw his head back, and when he was about to come, John put one vibrator the tip of the detective's cock, and the other in his perineum, massaging his prostate from the outside as he fucked him fiercely, hitting his prostate with every powerful thrust.

The detective snapped his eyes open as a shocked, sobbed growl came out of his mouth, jerking his body hard despite the restraints, while John continued to fuck him hard and deep.

Sherlock howled John's name in pleasure, interspersing unconnected syllables in his scream, as he came hard, his cock bathing in cum his chest and chin, while John, no longer able to fight back, made a couple more lunges and came inside Sherlock, screaming the detective's name with the same force, throwing away the vibrators and clinging to the detective's body to fuck him even deeper through his orgasm, while the detective squeezed him mercilessly with the contraction of his muscles caused by his brutal orgasm.

Dizzy and sated, John pulled his cock out of a half-unconscious Sherlock, letting himself slide on the mattress until he lay down, panting heavily, as his body kept contracting by the intensity of the orgasm. Minutes later, he knelt to untie the detective, carefully helping him to bend over. Sherlock let out a small moan without opening his eyes. Already untied, John took his pulse and embraced the motionless detective, curling him up between his arms and legs.

"One day you're going to kill me, John Watson,' Sherlock muttered weakly a few minutes later.

"And wouldn't that be the best death in the world?' replied the doctor teasingly, smiling tenderly, gently kissing Sherlock's neck.

"John... Don't start again."

John chuckled. He liked how the submissive Sherlock vanished as soon as they finished sex. 

"It's not my fault your neck's so sensitive," teased the doctor, giving him a couple more kisses.

They remained silent for a while, dozing, enjoying the contact of their bodies, the cuddles, the relax, and the time for themselves. They both felt as before the attack again, and both enjoyed that feeling in a pleasant and comfortable silence.

John's phone buzzed, and Sherlock groaned.

"It's Bill. He says we have an appointment at the pub?"

Sherlock grunted and sank his face into the pillow.

"He's expecting you in an hour."

"Me?"

"So he says. _ Tell the lanky I'll expect him in the pub in an hour. He owes me. _ You owe him?"

"Billy wanted to kill Moran. Not that I disagreed with the idea, but Mycroft and I thought it best to let him rot... there," John smiled at the euphemism, "and Bill said he'd leave him alive if we went to the pub with them.

"If we went?"

"Well, if I went, but obviously you were included."

"Obviously."

"Of course."

John typed quickly.

"We're meeting next week."

"Great. We could rest," sighed Sherlock.

"Rest?" teased John, removing the duvet from above an exhausted Sherlock.

"John..." whined the detective.

"I have been resting, eating, and sleeping for three months. I won't relax a second longer. And if I don't rest, "John moved until he was on top of the detective, "neither will you."

"Oh God," moaned the detective.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize it took me so long to finish it, but finally, I achieved it". 
> 
> I hope you enjoy it"


	6. Epulogue

He looked back and forth across the deserted street. The last time and he wouldn't go back to that house. The sooner it was over, the better.

He felt uneasy. Something was wrong, but he could not define what.

The usual girl in the white jumpsuit opened the door for him. He went into the living room and read the instruction sheet.

_On your knees. Head down. Naked._

He frowned. Naked? It was not agreed. And he wasn't going to give the woman the pleasure of forcing him to do something that wasn't in the contract. He knelt and lowered his head. 

Minutes later, the Woman appeared with her cadenced, firm, confident, and at the same time sensual footstep.

"Can't you read?"

"It's not in the contract."

"By now you should know two things: One, you should have listened to your brother when he told you not to trust me and two, here, in my house, what I say goes, whether it's in the contract or not."

Mycroft stood up to face her. He stopped short as he saw two other huge submissive men flanking her, clearly awaiting his orders.

"Strip him," barked Irene.

Before Mycroft could make the slightest move, the two of them lunged at him. The elder Holmes didn't stand a chance against them, and as one held him down, the other stripped him naked with ease. When all his clothes were on the floor, they put a collar on him, tied his hands to a bar hanging from the ceiling, and spread his legs, and left them apart with a separation bar.

"Your picture will look perfect on the front page of every newspaper," chuckled Irene.

The door opened, and a third man, taller and thinner than the other two slaves, entered the room carrying a video camera. He was dressed all in black and covered his face with a balaclava that only let his eyes glimpse with a hungry and teasing shine.

Mycroft struggled as the other man raised the camera, ready to film him.

"Smile, Mr. Holmes," the man scoffed, his voice unrecognizable by a voice distorter. "It's not every day that you make the news."

"Take that picture, and my brother will kill you," threatened Mycroft.

The distorted laughter sounded sinister and dismissive.

"Your brother will never know it was me who took the pictures."

"Sherlock!" cried Mycroft.

The sound of an activated phone call filled the room.

A snap announced the end of the call.

"It seems your brother is too busy to attend to you," commented the man sardonically, "everybody out," he ordered and all obeyed him.

Mycroft swallowed, wondering how he had been so foolish as to be caught in such a crude trap. Naked and unmoving, he could only appear indifferent to the man who walked around him, gazing up and down at him, brushing slighting his fingers against his skin.

"You have been naughty, Mr. Holmes, cheating on your boyfriend with The Woman."

"I haven't cheated on him," retorted Mycroft.

"No? And what are you doing here, then? To pass the time, you have the Diogenes".

"That's none of your business."

"You're in no position to be rude or pompous, Mr. Holmes. Be nice, answer me and maybe I'll think about the pictures".

Mycroft remained silent.

"No? Smile, Mr. Holmes, picture time,"

Mycroft pursed his lips tightly.

"I only wanted to be a good… sub. I wanted to learn and to improve, for him".

The man smiled and approached him. He took the voice scrambler from his mouth, and Greg's voice filled the room

"You have ten minutes."

"You… you are... you are..."

Mycroft was so angry and relieved at the same time that, for once in his life, he couldn't get the words out. He pressed his lips, upset, listening to Greg's funny laugh, and raised his head, plunging into an offended silence.

"You may be angry, but your cock is glad to see me,' Greg whispered in his ear, and a chill ran down his back while he groaned, feeling the tip of a whip brushings against his glans.

"What am I?" purred Greg in his ear.

Mycroft shook his head.

The sound of the whip surprised him more than the smack in his ass.

"Naughty, naughty," Mycroft nearly came with only those words purred in his ear, Lestrade sensually dragging the syllables. Mycroft could feel Greg, looking at him up and down, devouring him with his eyes.

"Don't talk if you don't want to. When I feel like it, I'll make you scream.

"Sir, I..."

"Yes, pet?"

"I want to apologize for what I said at the beginning."

Greg smiled like Cheshire's cat and moved behind Mycroft's back.

"Your apologies are no longer valid. Moreover, you earned two punishments. One for not answering your master when he asks you, and another for disobeying me".

Mycroft closed his eyes. Greg's purr, his breath in his ear and his neck, his eyes devouring him, his authority, were driving him mad, unable to spin two thoughts in a row.

"And tell me, what is the punishment for disobeying me?"

"Sir, please."

He shouted in surprise at the new whiplash that crossed his ass.

"Cockcage."

"You are a dedicated student."

God, how he hated cock cage, mainly because Greg was especially perverse when he put it on, displaying unprecedented creativity to bring him to orgasm without being able to come.

"But today, we're going to use a different cock cage… and more toys".

Mycroft frowned but refrained from asking. The two lashed Greg gave him still stang, and he didn't want to receive any more.

Lestrade blindfolded him. He snapped his fingers, and someone entered the room. He tried to pull his hips back when he noticed someone other than Greg manipulating the tip of his dick.

Another whiplash landed on his ass, and Mycroft stiffened, feeling how two stretchy rings attached his cock and testicles separately and firmly.

Greg approached him and licked his right nipple, his tongue brushing gently against it, just the tip, and then pricking it with his index finger and thumb.

Mycroft groaned softly, and Greg twisted the nipple slightly.

"From now on, I don't want any sound until I tell you, got it?

Mycroft nodded.

"I asked you a question."

"Yes, sir."

The whip landed on his ass again, and his dick swelled a little more, the rings that around it pressing even harder, without becoming painful.

"I said I don't want any sound."

Greg licked his right nipple again, while Mycroft clenched his teeth, his head slightly thrown back. In his vertical position, the stimulation of Lestrade's tongue and fingers seemed higher to him than in a horizontal position. God... that was torture...

When the nipple was hard enough, Greg put a clamp on it, and then moved to lick and pinch the other nipple, Mycroft's cock about to burst, as Greg hardened the other nipple and put the other clamp on it.

Greg pulled both clamps slightly, and Mycroft would have come if he were able to. He noticed Greg's wolfish smile. God, he couldn't deduce or try to predict anything, his brain, drowned in pleasure, seemed to have run aground, and there was no way to move it.

Someone removed the spreader bar from his feet. A hydraulic motor started working, and the chains moved, separating his legs more than the bars had done, so much so that he did not fall forward just by being restrained by his hands. The chains began to pull him up, so he was sitting in the air, his legs spread, but thanks to the efficient bondage, he did not feel uncomfortable in that position.

He jumped up when he noticed Greg's lube-soaked finger rolling down the entrance of his ass; then, he shoved it in.

"You wish it were my cock, huh?"

Mycroft nodded desperately.

"You'd love I were fucking you like the cockslut you are, wouldn't you?

Mycroft gasped, twisting the ropes, wondering how Greg could have gotten him into that state without almost touching him. But yes, he wanted his cock, he wanted it, needed it - but now he had to settle for Greg sticking a second finger in.

He screamed in agony when Greg, turning his finger, brushed against his prostate. Jesus Christ, he wanted to come so badly... he was dying to come, and Greg hadn't even started, and that damn cock ring wouldn't let him come and the idea drove him crazy...

Greg pulled out both fingers but, to Mycroft's frustration, he didn't insert a third. The submissive knew what that meant and resigned himself to feeling the silicone touch of the dildo Greg was putting inside his hole, fucking him with it. He chose a narrow and thin one, very different from his big and thick cock, so that Mycroft was well aware of the difference. Still, the brushing against his prostate every time Greg shove it inside him, and Lestrade now and then Lestrade pulling the chain that attached the nipple clamps while stroked his glans, made him squirm, desperate to come, to open his mouth and moan madly, to beg Lestrade to fuck him and never stop.

"Do you want to come?" purred Lestrade.

Mycroft nodded sharply.

"It's a pity you are punished," Mycroft couldn't help but moan, which was immediately corrected by another whipping. "But since you're behaving well, let's do one thing. If you can get me to come in the next five minutes, I'll let you come."

Greg ran his finger over the tip of Mycroft's cock, making him almost burst into tears of despair. "So that you can see your master takes care of you. Right?" he asked, slapping him on the ass, which echoed all over the place, to which Mycroft responded by nodding as vehemently as he could.

"That's how I like it," said Greg patting his head.

The engine started again, and Mycroft felt the chains vibrate, which began to move so that he was left in a horizontal position, face-up, the incredibly hard dick pointing to the ceiling. He clenched his teeth because supporting the weight of his body was not easy until he noticed how it began to descend until he found support on a surface of a smooth skin surface. Mycroft breathed a sigh of relief, but he tensed up when the chains tightened again, immobilizing him again.

He forgot everything when he felt Greg's cock rubbing against his face. He turned his neck until he could put it in his mouth. Mycroft melted into its exquisite taste, into Greg's smell, into what he loved to suck that cock, but then he remembered what his task was. He raised an eyebrow. If Greg wanted to come in five minutes, he would make him orgasm it two.

He ran his tongue eagerly over the tip of Greg's cock, over the glans, playing with it on the slit, delighted with the moans and grunts coming from the DI's mouth, who not only that he was enjoying the expert mouth of the British Government to the full, but that he would soon lose control.

He gently nibbled the tip of his cock, making Greg's whole body contract with pleasure. Just when he felt his victory close at hand, the rings around his glans and his balls began to vibrate, sending spasms of pleasure through his whole body, his impossible orgasm invading every corner him, and, unable to control it, Mycroft opened his mouth to make an incoherent moan, releasing Lestrade's cock, which laughed in his teeth.

"You've only got four minutes left," announced the amused Greg, watching his submissive's body squirm, and, trying to pull himself together, took Greg's cock back in his mouth, noticing, in frustration, the DI had strayed quite far from the point of coming.

He sucked with delight, moaning as the rings vibrated around his dick and his balls, crashing at the impossibility of coming, but willing to win, swallowing Greg's dick down to his balls, howling his cheeks for more friction, as Greg's moans grew louder and louder. Again he felt his master reaching him to reach the point of no return.

Mycroft's mouth always drove Greg crazy. If he could, he'd laugh out loud in Moriarty's face. Ice Man. Mycroft had the hottest, most deft mouth Greg had ever enjoyed. He started to feel the orgasm growing in his abdomen and, if he didn't watch out, he'd make him come.

"By the way, pet," he gasped "I forgot to tell you something. Everything vibrates."

Mycroft opened his eyes wide when Greg increased the intensity of the vibration of his cock rings. The dildo began to vibrate on his prostate, and the clamps vibrated on his nipples. He moaned aloud as his body twisted with the torture of not being able to come while his whole body was stimulated beyond its capacity.

"Please, sir, please, please," he moaned between excitement and sobs. "Please, allow me to come."

"Is that what they teach you here? To ask for coming before your master? To put your pleasure before mine?"

Mycroft shook his head. He could barely hear Greg's words, his body getting increasingly sensitive to the constant vibration of the toys, the impossibility of orgasm, and Greg's offended to mocking tone...

He nearly cried with relief when Greg pulled the dildo out of his ass, giving his body a break though his nipples and cock were tortured relentlessly.

But the relief was short-lived. Immediately, Greg's delicious cock replaced the dildo, shoving slowly inside his ass. Not being fully dilated, Mycroft noticed an intense burning, that did not reach the pain level. Greg penetrated him slowly, letting his ass get used to his cock, because he didn't want to hurt Mycroft and because the pressure of Mycroft's hole walls on his hard cock could make he come instantly.

Greg started to fuck Mycroft slowly, taking out all his cock to put it back in, once, twice, three, four times until Mycroft cried, begging to be fucked. When he was sure he was well dilated, the DI fucked him hard, crushing his prostate again and again without mercy, while, with the remote control, he increased the intensity of the vibrations on Mycroft cock and nipples.

Mycroft, instead of moaning, emitted a series of unconnected moans, subjected to that torture in which the stimulus of pleasure became unbearable, that delicious moment when, for once, everything dissolved and his body took over. Greg, on the other hand, clung tightly to his hips, fucking hard and fast the body of his submissive who kept writhing and stirring under him.

Mycroft screamed as Greg began to play with the tip of his cock, pinching it with his index finger and thumb, while his body twisted spasmodically, his cock so swollen he feared for a moment it would burst.

Greg bent down and kissed him hard, hammering away at his prostate.

"Please" Mycroft mused on his lips, "please, please, please, I can't, I can't anymore".

"Hmmmm, bad luck. You didn't make me come in five minutes. So sure you seemed to make it..." Greg mumbled mockingly. He was playing it cool, knowing that if it were ever indeed too much for Mycroft, he would use the safeword. Meanwhile, no matter how much he begged, no matter how much he pleaded, Greg would not stop.

"And tell me, how many have fucked you while you've been practicing here?"

Mycroft shook his head, unable to stop moaning, his body dissolving into a sea of pleasure that prevented him from thinking and even processing Greg's questions.

Lestrade, on the other hand, noticed he was losing control for seconds. Mycroft's ass muscle spasms were driving him crazy, his moans, his face. He gave several deep, quick, strong pushes to Mycroft's prostate, making him scream, and just as he started to come, he pulled the ring off his submissive's cock, both of them coming at the same time in a brutal orgasm that made them scream with pleasure. Mycroft's body twisted spasmodically as Greg continued to push his cock as he came inside him, Mycroft's come staining both their chests, until Greg dropped onto a trembling Mycroft.

Greg took off the clamps still vibrating on Mycroft nipples, and almost laughed at the relieved groan that it provoked in Mycroft. He kissed him on the lips gently, and untied the exhausted body, checking that none of the ties had hurt him.

"How did you know?" asked Mycroft a little later, when he remembered how to talk the breath. "Did Sherlock tell you?"

Greg frowned.

"Sherlock knew? I asked him, and he didn't say anything," he chuckled, "I'll have to talk to John," he looked at Mycroft, "even if none of you believe it, they didn't give me the DI job. Without falling into the category of genius, I have my moments".

"That's unquestionable," Mycroft settled down next to Greg. After a while, the two of them were half asleep, mumbling.

"I was thinking, as the basement will be empty, would you like we turn it into a playroom?"

Greg kissed him softly.

"You also have your moments, Mycroft Holmes."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to extend the epilogue. Hope you enjoy it!

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for all the kudos and comments. As always, feedback is welcome :-)  
> Hope you enjoy it!


End file.
